


the crime behind the fortune

by heartslogos



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate universe - Mafia, Don't copy to another site, Gen, M/M, Mostly Gen, Organized Crime, background pairings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 21,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20513063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartslogos/pseuds/heartslogos
Summary: Everyone knows that when Wayne dies Gotham is going to go under, so far under that Hell will talk about sending people to Gotham if they’re bad enough.It will, as the kids grimace, not be pretty. It won’t be decent, either.





	1. intro

**Author's Note:**

> ya'll remember back in ye olden days when i was on livejournal i had a mafia themed au
> 
> sometimes i remember that travesty and it hits me in the gut and whispers threats in my ear and i'm like...yeah. that was terrible.
> 
> i think we can attempt to do better than that

Everyone knows that when Wayne dies Gotham is going to go under, so far under that Hell will talk about sending people to Gotham if they’re bad enough.

It will, as the kids grimace, not be pretty. It won’t be decent, either.

The second that Bruce Wayne’s body no longer registers a pulse, all of Gotham will know that it is about to be carved like a Thanksgiving turkey. Only there’ll be no thanks to go around, and probably even less roasted fowl.

Because while Bruce Wayne and WE’s money flows through Gotham and keeps a majority of the worst under control — even if it is through bribery, coercion, blackmail, and all sorts of underhanded and _heavy_ handed methods — that even the police won’t touch, everyone knows that the real benefit of having Bruce bloody Wayne in power is that Gotham is kept whole.

It may be terrible. It may be dirty. It may be corrupt. It may be more rotten than a festering pile of garbage and manufacturing waste near the docks.

But at least it’s a _cohesive_ mass of depravity.

Wayne’s body won’t even be cold when the carving happens.

Bruce Wayne, for all that he’s got too much power, too much influence, and too much fucking money, is the only person capable of keeping Gotham one semi-respectable whole. The second he’s gone Gotham will cease to be Gotham.

Oh, the Falcones are out of the game. They haven’t recovered since Sofia Gigante died. There’s still Mario, but with the way Sullivan’s acting he’s basically a puppet. The Maroni’s are also out, they haven’t had anyone strong since Sal was killed serving his stint in prison.

The old blood is mostly gone, aside from the Wayne’s.

The Sabatino’s have been missing in action for generations, now. The Cosa Nostra are still around, but they’re so divided there’s no possible way for them to make a bid on the whole of Gotham.

There is, of course, the Triads, but under Wayne they’ve been playing nice for the past few years.

Black Mask’s in Arkham, and White’s taken over his crew but he’s also in Arkham and both of them are one riot away from getting off’ed by some other faction in a convenient power outage.

There are other groups with less age, less weigh to them. The Blackgaters, the Ghost Dragons, the Steel Cobras, the Lords of the Avenus, the Intergang, Hanoi Ten. And of course all the ones that aren’t named.

But not a single one of them stand a chance against the war that’s going to go on between the upper echelons of the Wayne family itself.

The Wayne family is _top dog_ in Gotham. Not a single family, gang, group, or organization can so much as _sneeze_ in Gotham without getting the Wayne family’s permission. As long as the Wayne’s like you, and you give them a reasonable cut, and do what they tell you to do when they want you to, you’ve got a sliver of a chance at attempting to make something in this city.

Bruce Wayne is the king of that empire. And where there’s a king, there’s an heir.

In this case, there are five of them, and they’re all fucking insane.

Richard John Grayson, eldest of the brood. Got into a fight with Wayne back when he was eighteen and fucked on off to Bludhaven to start trouble there. Still comes back every now and again to bring trouble back home. A mix of home grown mischief and learned, practiced schmoozing with politicians and CEO’s that are susceptible to a charming smile and small talk. That man is the devil in a suit, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If you weren’t from Gotham, you’d think he was a nice boy that you’d love to have your kid take home one day.

Cassandra Cain, the only girl. The only one everyone’s unanimously afraid of. If there’s one of them you don’t cross, it’s her. Why? No one knows. No one knows jack shit about her, frankly. There’s more known about God than there is known about Cassandra Cain. There’s more known about Cain in the Bible than there is about Cassandra Cain. No one’s tried to start shit with her _because_ no one knows. Rumor has it that she can stop your heart with one finger. One fucking finger. Fuck on off with that.

Jason Peter Todd, goes by the name Red Hood now. He was thought dead for _years_ before he came back and tore a chunk right out of Gotham with his bare hands. He was working the streets and scaling gang ladders even before Wayne took him in. He’s a born and bred Gothamite, an honest to god citizen of this city through nurture and nature. And you’d never see anyone more proud about it than Todd. Jury’s out on whether his honesty about being a crime lord in broad daylight is better or worse than the polite veneer the rest of the family wears when they play as socialites and rich heirs.

Timothy Jackson Drake. Formally the son of another minor crime family, lent out to Wayne to learn a few tricks of the trade — or maybe to try and steal some trade secrets —, and then later officially adopted in after his parents died under mysterious circumstances. He’s been Wayne’s right hand since he was a teenager. He’s even the official face for Wayne Industries, now that Bruce’s stepped aside a little. If there’s anyone who’d have a shot at being the next lead of the family it should be him for the fact that it’s his face the rest of the world sees whenever the Wayne name comes up in a news article or news clip. But he’s been branching out on the down low, real clever like. Collecting his own following, making his own alliances, his own deals. Drake deals. Not Wayne. And there are whispers that he and Wayne haven’t seen eye to eye in a while.

And finally Damian al-Ghul Wayne. The youngest. And the most vicious. The kid is only that, a kid. But he’s got the backing of the al Ghul family, an international power with more fingers in pies than there are hands in Gotham. And he’s got that classic Wayne look about him. He might not have been born here, but he’s learning fast and he’s got a look that belongs right up in the gallery along with every single one of his predecessor’s portraits.

Each of these five have their own influence and sway over the city. Sway and influence that’s kept marginally in line and on a somewhat concentric course under Bruce Wayne’s eye.

Bruce Wayne _did_ die. Once. Or he was thought to have died. He was gone for a real fucking long time.

And Gotham turned into a war zone, spared only by Bruce Wayne’s miraculous return, just before the entire place turned into a national disaster. As if it were after the Quake again. National guard and all.

This is all to say, that when Bruce Wayne kicks the bucket for real?

We’re all down shit creek without a paddle.

Good fucking luck.

You’ll be needing it.


	2. the wedding [1]

There are social events that hold personal, and social, significance and power. They bring communities together. They provide avenues for bonding and exchanging information, exchanging money, exchanging blood.

Society uses these occasions to build. To grow. To war.

And during these occasions nothing is more important than _hospitality_. Civility. Propriety. The following of certain accepted social agreements and unspoken rules. The covenant of neighbors, of social hierarchy, of class.

Birthdays are an example of such an important occasion.

The classic tale of Sleeping Beauty illustrates exactly why this is so important. A child is born and everyone comes to wish the happy parents well. The parents invite everyone of import.

But everyone knows that there’s _one_ person who wasn’t invited. And whether or not they would have accepted the invitation is irrelevant. What matters is that _no invitation_ was offered.

One does not slight someone of such power and importance.

Now, the Wayne family isn’t made of fairies. There’s too much talent for iron and its various formats for that. But at least two of them are so rotten not even death would take them.

Another such occasion with as much importance that would require the same amount of respect and healthy handling of such societal niceties as a birth is a wedding, which usually precedes a birth by about eight to nine months depending on how close that shotgun is to someone’s head.

Weddings are important things. They’re the start of something. They’re the end of something. They’re the making of something. They are the destroying of something.

Weddings bring people together. They end wars. They start alliances. They usher in peace. They can start feuds. They can start grudges.

And the Wayne family was not issued an invitation to this one.

Dick Grayson drives up to the security guards posted all the way down at the end of the street, parking his car right there in the damned center of it and knowing not a single person present — security guards, people who also happen to unfortunately live in this affluent suburban neighborhood, reporters, police — is going to stop him.

The man’s an angel to end all angels.

The word _end_ is used in its most literal, finite, and apocryphal sense here.

Man’s got a smile like a morning star, you could call him _Vesper_. You could also call him by the other name, too, but you’d get more of a laugh than anything.

He smiles that devil’s smile and the security guards falter. Most do.

Dick Grayson adjusts his suit, and turns to the sound of another car. Dark cherry red coming to a smooth stop next to his.

“Jason,” his eyebrows raise as the car doors open, “Tim. You came together?”

“Yup,” Jason answers, jerking his thumb towards the passenger side as it threatens to swing closed on the occupant. “Timbo over there’s having a day. I felt like being decent and giving the man a ride.”

“Feel like being decent and helping me out of the car?” Tim calls from the other side. Jason leans against his side of the car, making no move to go help. Dick shakes his head and goes to help.

“Having a day are you?” Dick asks, holding the door open so Tim can swing his forearm crutches out and pull himself out after them.

Tim Drake was supposedly assassinated on live television four or five years ago. _Supposedly_. Rumor has it that it was all staged. To make the people who saw that video feel sorry for him. To get the negative press coming from outside of Gotham off his back. To get people who _do_ want him dead to lower their guard so he could surprise them by popping back up when they least expect it.

Jury’s out on whether he was _really_ shot or not — several thousand witnesses, a still somewhat visible bloodstain right out front of W.E., and a box of evidence in the police department vaults aside. But he’s been using the crutches on and off ever since and no one’s got the balls to challenge it to his face.

“Yes.”

“And Jason just so _happened_ to be around to give you a ride?”

“I might have been there already as the day was progressing towards crutches territory,” Jason admits, making a motion for them to get a move on so he can lock the car.

“Oh? Anything I should be worried about?”

“We were bonding,” Jason says, “Right, Replacement?”

“It’s fine, Dick,” Tim ignores Jason and starts to swat Dick’s hands away as he tries to fix Tim’s hair. “What are you doing here?”

A motorcycle snarls in the rapidly deceasing distance.

“It’s a family gathering off the manor grounds,” Jason groans, “Ode to _joy_.”

Cassandra’s black monster of a motorcycle comes to a perfect stop, next to Jason’s car.

She flips the visor on her helmet up, examining all of them before resting her eyes on Tim.

“Bad?” She nods towards the crutches.

“They aren’t for the _aesthetic.”_

Before anyone can say anything about that, one way or the other, a final car comes by. It doesn’t park, it idles as its passenger leaves the back seat, before slowly reversing and turning itself around to drive off again.

“What are you all doing here?”

“Attending a wedding,” the four of them answer, eyeing each other and Damian.

“Alright, I’ll bite, did anyone here get an invite?” Jason says, “Raise your hand if you feel excluded from the block party that literally everyone was invited to.”

Four hands raise. Tim whacks one of his crutches against Jason’s tires to cast his vote.

“I heard _Vale_ was invited,” Damian says as they all stare at each other.

“I’m sure our invitation was lost,” Dick shrugs, “I bet they didn’t know who to address it to. There’s six of us, after all, and most of us are never at the manor.”

“Such optimism.”

Cassandra points at the closest security guard, making sure he’s met her eyes before she points at her bike.

“If this has moved,” Cassandra says, “I will remove you.”

She does not wait to see if this is understood. She turns around and starts to take off her leather jacket, revealing a black undershirt.

Cameras flash. The reporters who didn’t get a chance to pass security know better than to ask questions, and to be content with whatever pictures they can manage.

“Shouldn’t you be hiding your face?” Jason gestures towards the flashing cameras as the four of them move to somewhat obscure their sister from the flashing lights. “Might look bad for you if you’re seen crashing a wedding.”

Tim’s smile to the cameras causes a riot of flashes that are now solidly directed and him. It looks so menacing in its niceness that it would make sharks look like herbivores.

“Don’t be silly, Jason. I _own_ those reporters.”

“Tim, Tim, Tim,” Dick chides, “You can’t own reporters. Owning reporters is owning people and that’s slavery. It’s been outlawed.”

“Slavery is illegal and wrong,” Cassandra says from where she’s standing a bit off from them, pulling out a neatly folded dress shirt from her bike’s storage compartment and doing it up. “Damian, do my tie.”

Damian sighs, “Yes, Cassandra. You’d think that you’d know how to tie it yourself at this point, considering all the other knots you know.”

Dick points at her as he slings an arm around Tim and Jason, drawing them in together earning a grumble from Jason and an irritated eye roll from Tim, “Exactly, Cass. Besides, there’s something more powerful than owning a person.”

Cassandra and Dick both turn at the same time to face the cameras directly in a sharp snap.

“You can own the face of their fear.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jason passes a hand over his eyes. “You’re the goddamned worst. I don’t know why I bother. Alright. Let’s get this shit show on the road.”

Dick smiles at the guards.

“You don’t need to see our invitation, right?”

Damian doesn’t wait, he brushes past the guards and starts walking towards the house with the white ribbons on its tall stone wall.

“Our invitation is the fact that we are Waynes, and all the money used to pay for this wedding came from our graces,” Damian says, “And frankly, I would like to see such graces return with some measure of gratitude.”

“Agreed,” Tim adjusts his grip on his crutches as he moves forward, parting guards without any resistance. “This union wouldn’t have happened without my influence and I would like some minor acknowledgement of that. And there are some people here who’ve been annoyingly persistent in how hard they are to reach.”


	3. the wedding [2]

It’s a shame that there are only four horsemen mentioned in regards to the end of days. There’s five Wayne children. The metaphor simply does not fit nicely.

Then again, the Waynes rarely fit anything _nicely_. The Waynes are almost never _nice_. Nor do they do most things _nicely_ unless it suits them to do it that way. The Waynes know how to use honey and vinegar for the best results.

But today’s events are not about honey and vinegar, though it may pour some salt onto a festering wound.

Today’s events — for those who are _not _the Wayne children — can only be described as apocryphal.

Imagine, a white wedding. A white spring wedding. Almost summer, really.

Trees so green you can taste the crispness of it with every breath. Flower blossoms the size of your fist. Silk, satin, and fondant as far as the eye can see. Ladies and gentlemen in every sort of pastel filing the spacious backyard so that it looks like a fairground.

Underneath a flowering archway on a freshly painted white lattice is a priest.

And in front of that priest is a woman in handsome white and a man in an equally beautiful eggshell. Both of them beaming at each other. Unaware and blissful about it.

The priest asks if there is anyone who would object to such a glorious union of such happy looking people.

The door to the house bursts open, and a shaking man bleats out a single name.

Everyone turns, and looks, and sees.

Five people clad in deep black suits, looking as sharp and crisp as the smell of leaves but in the other direction. In a colder direction.

“I'm so sorry to interrupt,” Dick says, smiling beatifically as the entire wedding party comes to a petrified halt. If one were to collect all the blood that just left these people’s faces you’d fill the county’s blood banks. “Our invitations got lost in the mail. We weren’t sure when to show up, so we hedged our bets.”

“Yup,” Jason nods. Jason doesn’t smile so much as his teeth make their physical presence known in the most sensitive and vulnerable part of a person’s heart. The man’s got a smile that the man of the crossroads, the devil himself, would fall twice over to learn. “Lost’m. Speaks volumes to the overworked and underpaid United States Postal Service. Lost five separate wedding invites.”

“Six,” Damian corrects, “Father did not receive one, either.”

“Bad timing that we came in on the part where you’re supposed to voice your objections,” Tim muses, eyes focused in on the two patriarchs of the families who’s children are getting married today. The two men look so gray it’s like someone already cremated the two men and then put then used the ash to make replicas of their living visages. “I can’t think of any off of the top of my head. What a charming match. Don’t mind us. We can watch from here.”

“But Tim,” Cassandra interjects, “What about your injury?”

As soon as the words leave Cassandra’s perfectly outlined mouth the entire party can’t move fast enough.

People are vacating seats as though there’s rockets attached to them. The main members of the family are barreling over each other to show respect and kiss hands, shake hands, bow heads, say feverish and earnest apologies, complain about the abysmal state of Gotham’s branch of federal mail carrier, all the while snapping orders at hired help to start rearranging chairs and — in hissed asides, rearrange the seating at the tables to include the biggest sharks in the sea of organized crime in the country.

The bride and groom themselves leave their places in front of the priest in order to pay their respects.

“Congratulations,” Tim says, shaking the groom’s hand, covering the man’s shaking hands with both of his own as Cass gently steadies him with her hand on his upper arm.

Tim Drake is not a man for physical affection towards others — Wayne Family excluded. The man shakes hands and kisses babies like any other wealthy pseudo celebrity. But when Timothy Jackson Drake touches you, it might as well be a kiss of death. You’ve got his attention. He’s made sure to hold you in his eyes and extend his focus towards your fate. Good _luck_.

“Please, come up front,” the bride says, gesturing the five of them up towards the front rows. “Please.”

“If it’s all the same I’d rather stay back here,” Tim nods towards the end chair in the back row as he lightly taps his fingers on his elbow crutches. “Makes it easier to get in and out. I’d hate to bother someone with these in the way.”

“Of course, of course. Whatever we can do to make you comfortable, Mr. Drake.”

Cassandra steps between her brother and the many hands that attempt to usher Tim, “I’ve got him.”

“I’ll stand,” Jason says, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, “Smoker’s section. Nothing like a good smoke on a beautiful wedding.”

“We have some wonderful cigars,” one of the groomsmen says, “If you’d like, they’re inside the house.”

“Sure,” Jason nods, “I’m sure we can all enjoy some in the office. There’s an office in this house, right?”

“Business?”

“Of course not. Not on a wedding!” Dick assures, “But we would like to have a word in private. Just a less…public congratulations to the families involved.”

“The poor priest,” Damian drawls as he strides to the seats in the front that were pointed out earlier, “Has just been standing here. Let the man do his job and finish the nuptials. I’m sure that there was more planned for today’s festivities than everyone fawning over Drake.”

“Damian’s right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

“Please, we really didn’t mean to interrupt — and at such a bad time — we thought we’d be coming in at the tail end of it, surely,” Dick continues, waving people off as he goes to join Damian in front, “Just pretend we aren’t here. We’ll be very quiet from now on. You won’t even notice we’re here. Don’t we blend in quite nicely in our suits?”


	4. the wedding[3]

As soon as the doors to the small shuttered office close everyone's eyes swing to Tim’s.

“Alright, so what's the game plan?”

“Plan?” Tim blinks owlishly at them, catching one of his crutches in time as it starts to precariously tip over. “What plan? There’s a plan?”

“Yeah?” Dick says, furrowing his brow, “I mean. You tell us.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because of your big brain, genius,” Jason leans over the back of the sofa and pokes his finger to the side of Tim’s temple. “I mean. Why else do you have such a huge forehead?”

Tim slaps a hand to his forehead as Cassandra pats his knee.

“I love your forehead,” Cassandra says solemnly, “Perfect for kissing.”

“Thank you,” Tim says, turning his glare away from Jason to the rest of them. “I wasn’t aware that there was a plan beyond _crash the wedding_.”

“Well. There’s a reason why they didn’t invite us,” Dick says, “And I’m pretty sure we can guess at what it is.”

“Our hosts, along with many in attendance, seemed overly eager to make sure none of us were alone in the same room,” Damian says, crossing his long legs as he flicks invisible lint off of his knee. “Who wants to go first?”

“The bride’s family’s been skimming off the top from me,” Jason says. “They’re supposed to be paying protection as a percentage of officially business revenues from money laundering fronts but I know they’re starting to push their business off of my turf onto Drake’s.”

“The groom’s family has been copying trademarks of W.E. — very subpar replicas, and distributing them overseas,” Tim says, “The proceeds of which are being funneled into some kind of arms trading circuit in Cass’ area.”

Cass doesn’t say anything about that, she just hugs a decorative pillow and starts picking at a loose thread on the embroidery on it.

“Said arms trading circuit is linked to some rather annoying people that’ve been trying to choke me out of Bludhaven,” Dick adds.

“Those guns,” Damian continues, “Were used in the latest altercation directly in front of City Hall. The fatal altercation.”

The other four of them turn to Damian who pulls out a small piece of folded paper from the inside of his jacket pocket and holds it out to Dick.

“Father has instructions for us.”

Dick flips it open, eyes skimming it as his lips press together, brows drawing downwards. Solemnity makes the man look his age.

It makes him look mortal. Human. Imperfect. Fallible.

“Well? Don’t leave us in suspense, Dickie, get on with it. What’s the old man telling us to do now?”

Jason’s arms bracket Tim’s shoulders as he leans down, resting his chin on Tim’s head.

“Resolve it without violence,” Dick’s shoulders slump with resignation. “He wants us to solve this without physical force. It has to be completely clean.”

Jason lets out a hiss of breath between his teeth.

“Not even _indirectly_? What if skin isn’t broken? Does bruising count? What if we got them to beat each other up? Or went third party?”

“Not even a suggestion of possible violence?” Tim asks. “Can I get the exact wording on this one?”

“No bruises. Not so much as a nicked bone. Every single hair has to stay in perfect place,” Dick insists. “No. Physical. Violence. That’s it. And you know B won’t take lightly to us going around this one on a technicality. Not for this. Not when it comes to guns.”

“It’s like they wanted to get on B’s bad side.”

“Or perhaps they were foolish enough to think that they could control where their guns were going to be used,” Damian points out. “Devil’s advocate, they might have simply thought that their guns wouldn’t be used in Gotham. Where we would notice. Where we would care.”

The five of them grimace.

B _always_ cares about gun violence.

“Are you _sure_?” Jason presses. “Sure sure? _Really_ sure? Maybe he forgot to write something else on that note? You know? Because he’s old?”

“_Jayce.”_

_“Our father isn’t senile, Todd_.”

“Fine, fine. But does _anyone_ have any idea how to resolve this without any violence when these two have so royally fucked us over that it’s gone full circle and ended up slamming them straight to the very top of B’s shit list? Any good plans? At all?”

Once again, everyone looks at Tim.

“I really don’t know why you’re looking at me,” Tim waves his hands, “Because this is literally the first I’m hearing about _most_ of this.”

“Of course it is,” Dick says good naturedly, “Now use that big brain of yours to tell us what to do.”

“You hate it when I tell you what to do.”

“I hate it when you tell me what to do when I already know how to do it,” Dick corrects, “But in this case, all of us are flying by the seat of our perfectly tailored pants.”

Tim looks to Damian.

Damian looks back at Tim. “Well. Get on with it, Drake.”

“You too?”

“The second father’s pen touched the paper I knew that this would be out of my wheelhouse and straight into yours,” Damian replies. “The softer arts of war are something I am not particularly fond of.”

“The softer arts of war,” Jason mutters under his breath, “You’re _sixteen_, fuck off with that kind of diction.”

Tim closes his eyes, covering his face with his hands.

“Alright, everyone shut up I’m thinking.” He lowers his hands to give them all quick looks. “You guys know that I’m equally as impulsive as the rest of you, right? On a scale of impulsiveness, the only reason why I seem more well thought out is because one of us has an underground identity based on the color of his motorcycle helmet and another one of us is regularly seen surfing on top of trains?”

“It’s not my fault that the people of Gotham aren’t creative,” Jason protests. “Now go do your petty bitch passive-aggressive plotting so you can clue the rest of us in _before_ our hosts finish shitting themselves in another room and come back to see us.”


	5. the plan

“You aren’t driving away in _my_ car.”

“I've done worse in things fancier than your car that _you can’t drive_.”

Tim’s mouth clamps shut and Jason smirks in his momentary victory.

“Neither of you are driving away because this is a group effort,” Dick says, “And I’m not going in there alone. I might not make it out again.”

“Good,” Cassandra says, but makes no motion to lead the five of them past the doors.

“Someone needs to hold the door for me,” Tim points out. “These are the most comfortable crutches I’ve used in the past few years, but they’re not fun to just stand around in.”

“Damian, you still live here.” Dick turns to the youngest of them. “Go on.”

“Technically,” Damian says slowly, “All of you still live here. Cain, we all know you’re his favorite. _You_ open the door.”

“Jason makes a bold statement,” Cassandra replies, turning to Jason, “You open it.”

“Fuck off, he hates my guts and we’ll instantly be at a disadvantage. Tim, I’ll hold the door open from behind and you go in first. You’re technically the one running the business right now anyway.”

“Dick’s the eldest. You always talk about how you’d do anything for us because that’s what a big brother does.” Tim gestures with the tip of his crutch towards the door. “Well. Go on. Prove it.”

“Yeah, Dick, _prove it_.”

“Sequential order,” Damian agrees, “Grayson.”

A voice clears their throat from behind them and they all turn around to see Alfred.

“Did you need help with the door?”

The five of them exchange embarrassed looks before shuffling into order, mumbling variations of _no, thank you, Alfred._

“Very good. Is that the five of you for dinner then?”

Another mumbled series of _yes, please, thank you Alfred’s,_ as everyone makes sure they aren’t looking at the butler and instead at the floor.

“I feel like I’m in private school again,” Jason murmurs.

“You were in private school for all of one day before you got kicked out,” Damian replies.

“Yeah, and this is the part where I get kicked out. I’d say it was the highlight of the day but Alfred was there.”

“I remember it fondly, sir.”

“Come on, Aflred, you can pretend that you can’t hear us having a mild panic attack over facing the old man.”

“I bet he can hear us,” Tim groans, “I bet he can hear all of us right now.”

“So let’s stop giving him more ammunition,” Dick puts his hand on the doorknob. “Okay. On three.”

“We’re crime bosses, we shouldn’t be scared to piss of our own _dad_.”

“And yet here we are,” Damian reaches around Tim and jabs Jason in the ribs. “Let’s _go_.”

Dick counts down to three and opens the door, the five of them filing in, bookended by Alfred closing the doors behind them and going to take the tea tray from the small table next to the only occupied chair in the solar.

Bruce is sitting in a stiff backed arm chair, working on the crossword of the weekend paper, glasses perched on his nose.

As soon as the five of them have filed in and arranged themselves on the empty seats in the room he takes the glasses of his nose, folds the paper, and looks up at them.

“How was the wedding?”

“Hilarious,” Jason answers. “And awkward as fuck.”

“Did you have a nice time?”

“Can we cut the pleasantries?” Tim asks, watching as Damian and Cassandra arrange his crutches leaning them against the arm of the long, low sofa so that they don’t fall down. “I’m exhausted and I hate suits.”

“The bride and groom looked like a nice pair,” Dick says, ignoring Tim as he plays out the small talk, “Maybe a bit stressed, but that’s weddings for you.”

“The five of us talked and the results were frustrating,” Damian says, back ramrod straight as he takes his position between Tim and Cassandra on the sofa. “Did you know about this already?”

“Know about what already?”

“The multiple double crosses and alliances against us that led to the shoot out in front of city hall.”

“Ah, yes,” Bruce blinks, “I had wondered what you were going to do about it, I thought you were just giving them more time to make things exceptionally crushing when you finally got around to handling it. I already had a plan ready to put into motion, but as the five of you always remind me — you are adults capable of making their own decisions. I didn’t want to step on any toes.”

The five of them share a collective, internal, grimace. Of course he knew about it.

“_But_, since the five of you hadn’t made any moves I felt that perhaps a small suggestion would be forgiven.”

Less suggestion, more _royal edict_.

“What is your plan moving forward?”

“Well,” Dick turns to Tim.

Tim presses the heels of his palms to his eyes as he sighs, sounding tired, wan, and overall fed up with today.

“We’re going to starve them out. I’ll extend the _legal_ and above board arm of W.E. to slowly pressure their business and make life hard for them. They’ll, inevitably, have to start turning towards their more dubious sources for assets. Jason and Cassandra are going to crack down on their increased illegal activity by picking off their resources — _convincing them to join people who are more like our people_. Not by literally — no violence. Like you _suggested_. Dick’s going to keep them contained to Gotham using his various and sundry connections and whatever he does to convince people to do what he wants them to do, and Damian’s going to come down on whoever even looks at them sideways by giving them the face and using archaic language on them.”

“If you would read something that did not involve space shuttles or fire breathing reptiles you’d know that the words I use aren’t _archaic_.”

“Yeah, take a crack at _ye olde Beowulf_ for archaic,” Jason muses, ruffling Damian’s hair and dodging the swipe at his hand, “Damian’s just posh.”

“Which businesses will you pressure?” Bruce asks, “How?”

“We can afford to take a hit on our shipping,” Tim says, “I don’t intend to make this a war of attrition. They don’t have our resources and they don’t have our reputation. They’ll panic, and they’ll make mistakes. It won’t take longer than a few months before I’ve gotten them desperate. I’ll start scheduling a series of sales and store remodels, sharp discounts — we’re coming up on some trademark renewal schedules. Perfect time to offload everything with our brand logos as we update them. I’ll use the brands that aren’t commonly remembered to belong to us. Our low end clothing lines, our store brand vitamins, things like that. They can’t launder money on schedule if there isn’t any excuse for the revenue to come in. Meanwhile, they also can’t be copying our trademarks and selling them at discount if we’re already doing it.”

“By the time they’ve figured out exactly who we’re planing on making them start living a minimalist style I’ll have begun scoping out their hands and convincing them into joining other gangs,” Jason says, “The muscle goes where the money goes.”

“And the loyalty of the family?”

“One family cannot stand against the five of us,” Dick says, “And by the time I’ve finished making sure _everyone_ knows how upset we are with this one family that’s all they will be. One small family.”

“And their business partners?”

“If they are in the business of profit then they will see how unwise it is to be their business partners,” Damian says, “Or even be associated with that family name.”

Bruce nods thoughtfully. “Good.”

“Good,” Cassandra repeats back, nodding also as she abruptly stands. “I do not want to eat dinner in this suit.”

She goes over and kisses Bruce on the cheek and walks out the door.

“I don’t want to eat dinner in _any_ kind of suit,” Jason says and follows after her, pausing at the door to glance at Tim. “You good, Replacement?”

“I’ll manage,” Tim says dryly, picking his crutches up. “Hold the door, would you? And give me back my car keys.”

“Again, it might be your car but you can’t drive it.”

Damian rolls his eyes, trailing after them with a momentary look at Dick and Bruce before sighing and leaving, shutting the door behind himself with a small click.

Dick crosses his arms, meeting Bruce’s gaze head on.

“You didn’t have a plan for this, did you?” Dick says.

Bruce smiles, slowly standing up as he walks towards the door.

“There was no right answer,” Dick continues. “You just wanted to see what we’d come up with.”

“There are never any answers, Dick,” Bruce says, gesturing for his eldest to leave first. “And the solution the five of you came up together is very clever. I’m proud you.”

Dick groans, “I hate it when you plot for us to get along and work together. I bet you knew that the five of us were getting played.”

“I know you do,” Bruce claps a hand to Dick’s back, “Don’t worry, sport, I only knew about the five of you getting circles run around you since the engagement. Before that I was just guessing.”


	6. big red and not as big red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason/Tim

“You’re not going to let me walk into this alone, all by my miserable little self, are you?” Jason presses, tugging at some of Tim’s hair. “Come on. It’s not like I’m asking you to give me your hand in marriage. It’s just a car. And a few explosives. A couple of little gadgets and cameras.”

Tim shakes his head, batting Jason’s hand away.

“The last time I let you _borrow_,” Tim cuts a glance at Jason who puts his hands up in surrender, “My _car_ you returned it in pieces. I still haven’t finished fixing it.”

“Our car,” Jason corrects. “You build it, I drive it. Why else would you built it exactly the way I like it? I don’t even have to adjust the mirrors whenever I get in. And you can’t tell me that the interior design aesthetic isn’t because you know I love the classics. It may be a digital screen but I love me some old fashioned meters. Also couldn’t help but notice that if you turn the audio on it defaults to _The Best of Queen_.”

Tim scowls, unable to deny that, mumbling, “You’re not the only one who likes _Queen_.” Then, louder, “No is no. I’m not letting you use anything. You _are_ going into your stupid little pissing contest all by your miserable self.”

“It’s going to be embarrassing if I walk in there with the boring toys.”

“Good thing you’re used to embarrassment, isn’t it?”

Jason groans, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling as he crouches down next to Tim’s chair, rocking loosely on his heels.

“You don’t want me to look bad, because if I look bad _you_ look bad. We’re a team. Big red, not as big red.”

Tim reaches over and pulls on Jason’s ear, not looking away from the files he’s skimming through.

“You’re a menace, Hood.”

“But I’m _your_ menace.”

Tim lets go of Jason in favor of swatting him over the back of the head. Jason ducks neatly before springing up again, going around back to lean on the back of Tim’s chair.

“Come on, Replacement. I've had to have grown on you a _little,” _Jason needles, tipping Tim’s chair back so that he can look Tim in the eye. “Admit it. You like me.”

Tim reaches up and pushes his fingers to the underside of Jason’s chin, flicking his head up.

“Everyone likes you, Jason,” Tim replies, “Let go of the chair.”

Jason lets go, letting the front two legs land with a heavy _thump_ as Tim resumes his work.

“And yes,” Tim concedes wearily, “I like you.”

“Enough to let me play with your toys?” Jason asks, resting his head on top of Tim’s, arms dangling over Tim’s shoulders as he rocks them back and forth on the chair legs.

“Yes, Jason, enough to let you use my very expensive prototype machines,” Tim says, giving up on working entirely and resting his arms over Jason’s. “I’m still mad about _my car_.”

“Our car.”

“_Our car_,” Tim shoves back so he can stand. “I could drive it if I wanted to.”

“Sure,” Jason says, moving a hand to hover over the small of Tim’s back as Tim works his way around the kitchen table towards his office space, bracing himself on the backs of chairs and on the wall as he goes. “How bad is it?”

“It’s just the pain,” Tim answers, “I didn’t sleep well last night, it always feels worse when I haven’t slept.”

“It’s been years and I still think that’s the gutsiest move I’ve ever seen or heard anyone doing in the history of _ever_,” Jason says, following Tim into his home office.

Tim slowly moves over to a picture frame on his gallery wall. Jason offers Tim his arm to lean on as Tim swings the frame on its hinges to reveal the complex looking panel.

“What happened to the aquarium?”

“Nothing,” Tim shrugs as he enters his passcode, “What I’m going to let you use for tonight isn’t in that one, though.”

“How many secret caches of weapons and tech do you have, exactly?”

“If I told you they wouldn’t be secret anymore, would they?” Tim leans forward to let the scanner see his eye up close.

“It could be _our_ secret.”

“I think the two of us have enough secrets shared, we don’t need to add one more to that.” Tim gives Jason a small smile as he gestures towards the contents of the small safe. “Here. No car for you until I’ve fixed the other one. You can take the bike.”

“Sweet,” Jason grins as he empties the contents of the safe. “Is that a gun? Are you fucking around with guns now? Is this my birthday? My death anniversary?”

“It only looks like a gun,” Tim explains, “I’m not stupid enough to actually start working in on guns. B would have my head. It’s a theatre piece.”

“A what now?”

“No bullets, no magazine. You pull the trigger and it releases a mini EMP. Not enough to damage anything. Just enough to shut out the lights and turn off any surveillance in the immediate area to make a quick and dramatic getaway. Or do something in the dark without getting noticed.”

Jason nods thoughtfully, “And the knives?”

“Borrowed from W.E.’s experimental labs, they’re self sharpening. They’re very, very fragile though.”

“But if it breaks while inside of someone that’s going to suck.”

“Exactly, so don’t use them to pry something open or anything.” Tim goes to sit at the desk chair. “There should be some lock scramblers and ciphers in there, too.”

“You’re the best, babe,” Jason says, pocketing the devices. “The Sprang Bridge Soldiers won’t know what hit them.”

“I can’t believe you need to use my tech on the Sprang Bridge,” Tim rests his chin on his palm as Jason finishes kitting himself out. “It’s overkill.”

“It’s a lesson in why no one fucks with the Red Hood,” Jason says. “I treat everyone equally. Whether you’re a little fish or an even littler fish, I’m going to fuck you up if you try to fuck with me.”

“Good to know I’m not an exception to the rule,” Tim says, “And here I thought I was getting special treatment when you impaled me on a rusty pipe.”

“Sorry, I’d impale anyone on a rusty pipe given half the chance,” Jason teases, “But the whole bit about you joining me and us being amazing together was totally sincere. And look at us now.”

“I’m not letting you barge into my house and ransack me for weapons because of that, I’m not that easy.”

“Nope, you’re letting me use your weapons because you can’t get anyone else to use them because they’re scared that B would give them the look of blatant disappointment. And since I’m inoculated to it, you’re home free to use me as your guinea pig for your experiments. The part where you let me barge into your house at all hours is because you think I’m pretty.”

“Pretty annoying.”

“Pretty annoying but irresistible in a suit,” Jason smirks, tossing the keys to the bike up and down in his palm, quickly crossing the room to smack a loud kiss to Tim’s forehead before striding out the office door. “Now, sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got a date with a gang and I like to show up on time. It keeps people on their toes when I’m decent.”

“Bring that bike back in one _working_ piece, Jason,” Tim yells after him, “I’m not kidding. I’m not made of weaponized vehicles.”


	7. hunting season is open

“When I get my hands on you, I’m going to rip your brain out through your _nose_,” Todd snarls. Damian lets out a beleaguered sigh.

“Ah yes, because the threats of physical violence are _definitely_ going to entice the other party into cooperation and revealing themselves to us. Brilliant, Todd. Absolutely _stunning_.”

“You,” Todd points at Damian, “You can shut it, because you’ve just been sitting here making faces at me for the past half hour.”

There is an argument, in regards to development, that asks whether a person’s essential character and persona is determined by their genetics or by the environment in which they come to find themselves being raised in.

And while Damian may have been born into a life of organized crime, and raised with the knowledge that he is the heir to two ignoble houses, he was not born or bred in Gotham City, United States of America.

Todd was not born into a crime family, but he does have the benefit of having been born in Gotham and raised in Gotham. Twice over, even. If you count the experience of being, legally and logistically, dead to the world.

And Jason wears this Gotham brand of propriety like a second skin.

Damian rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to slouch. Pennyworth’s disappointment in Damian’s wrinkled clothing aside, he enjoys getting under Todd’s skin by behaving like — in Todd’s ever so vivid words — the poshest prick in America since America was a British Colony and spelled color with a _u_.

Todd walks out of Damian’s line of sight, still threatening whoever it is he’s talking to. Father only said they couldn’t use threats of physical violence on their current collaborative project. Such limits cannot be applied to their other business affairs.

There are some things that can be handled only with force.

Though Damian is of the opinion that using crude, but descriptive, promises of bodily harm are crass and a sign of the truly weak. This is an opinion that he and Todd clash on often. If one is going to use physical force there is no need to vocally describe it to your enemy. And there are other ways of using words to be intimidating other than such color pieces of prose that describe exactly where a person is going to shove their fist and to what extent.

Todd, of course, believes that such descriptors are — somehow — part of the convention. As if skipping them would be some great and deep social faux pass. how such waste of breath and time can be anything other than such is beyond Damian.

And the logical route of just _doing_ the act rather than talking it up is beyond Todd.

Damian has long since learned his lesson about attempting to teaching old dogs new tricks, and Todd will never break through Damian’s superior upbringing which surpasses a very low standard of basic politeness and civility in the face of the uncouth.

To put it simply, Todd is beyond hope and Damian isn’t going to cave in to appease him.

Damian listens to Todd’s voice moving, growing louder and softer, as he paces.

He taps one of his earbuds.

“Brown.”

“Is he finally gone? Fuck, he can talk _forever_.”

“Fortunately not,” Damian replies, slowly standing up and moving towards Todd’s computer. “Knowing him he’s going to get fed up and hang up when his threats — predictably — don’t persuade his intended target into presenting themselves for whatever torture he’s come up with. Make this fast, Brown. I have better things to do than play your errand boy.”

“Trust me, you are real low on my list of people I’d ask to do things,” Brown huffs, “But Cass is out of Gotham for the next few days, and Tim and Jason are on the outs.”

“There was a time where they _weren’t_ on the outs?” Damian’s eyes flick to the hallway Jason walked through before quickly turning back to the blank screen. Damian slips the receiver into the USB port. “How are you going to get in?”

“Dont doubt O’s programming combined with Tim’s hardware,” Brown says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“The screen remains blank.” Damian checks around the laptop. “Nothing has turned on.”

“Chill, I got this. If you keep questioning it I’m going to tell O that you thought she couldn’t hack Todd.”

Damian would point out that if there is any fault in this plan of Brown’s, it’s probably from Brown’s plan not Oracle’s tech.

“How do I know when it is done?” Damian asks, keeping a careful ear out for Todd. “I don’t need Todd being a nuisance with my business. Bad enough that Grayson’s here.”

“Yeah, how’s that going by the way?”

“Terribly, and I would thank you not to inquire further. It’s family business.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but I am family.”

“It’s immediate family business.”

“Damian. I dated one of your brothers and I’m currently dating one of your sisters. It doesn’t get more immediate than that, bud.”

“_Brown_.”

“It’s done.”

Damian snatches the USB back and stuffs it in his inner pocket, quickly returning to his seat, cutting the communication between himself and Brown.

Todd comes back in less than a minute later, looking ornery and as exasperated as Damian feels on a near daily basis.

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Damian waves his hand, “Yes, and?”

“Which one do you want first, dumbass?”

“Bad news.”

“It looks like the Replacement’s plan to squeeze our new examples for why you don’t fuck with guns in Gotham is working.”

“And how is that bad?” The sooner this plan gets underway the sooner it completes. And all the sooner Damian can stop having to play nicely with his siblings. The sooner Damian can stop playing nicely at all.

Todd’s mouth flattens. “Bad because it looks like rather than do the logical thing and swing towards their illegal businesses to offset their losses, it looks like they’re about to launch a rebellion on us while they’ve got something left to lose.”

Damian groans, covering his face with his hands. “And there is good news to be expected from this?”

“Well. If they attack us first, not even the old man can say shit to that,” Todd says, “Then it’s _hunting season_.”


	8. hunting season 1

“Fabricci! You’re late for dinner! You should phone ahead. Your wife and I had a lovely dinner together, but the entire time we were missing you.”

Dick doesn’t even blink when the lights flick on and the man in the doorway freezes. Dick’s eyes travel over Fabricci’s body. A little rumpled. Rosy complexion — drunk, possibly. Dick can’t smell the booze from here, but he’s sure he can figure it out without having to do a sniff test.

Fabricci is one of the stubborn hanger-ons that thinks with enough gumption, enough muscle, and enough brass he can upset Gotham’s status quo. He’s one of those who thinks that it’s time for a change and that change should be his family’s name on the billboards and in the news as Gotham’s — well. Family. Gotham only has one family and it will only ever be Wayne. That’s how Gotham started and that’s how Gotham is going to end.

If it wouldn’t get Dick teased he would have made a comment about the attitude of new money when he was discussing this with Jason and Damian. 

The man turns to, no doubt yell at the poor woman huddled against the wall and ready to flinch. She’s holding the man’s coat up like a shield. But Dick stands, drawing attention back to himself.

“Oh, don’t get mad at her. She was kind enough to let me in to wait for you. And goodness how we’ve been waiting!” Dick smiles. It’s not the gentlest of smiles in his arsenal. But it’s definitely not the meanest. The woman averts her eyes anyway.

It can be hard to look into the sun, regardless of how gentle it seems.

“What did you do to her?” Fabricci demands. 

“Nothing.” B’s instructions aside, Dick isn’t the kind of person who would resort to threats or violence first anyway.

There are people who get by with acts of dominance enacted by fists and fury. And that can be well and good for them, but Dick isn’t that type of person and he never will be. He’s never led with a fist. Dick’s prelude is his smile and if that doesn’t get him where he needs to be that’s when the fists can fly but there aren’t many places a smile won’t get him.

“Why are you here? You aren’t welcome in my home. You want to talk? You set up business like anybody else.”

Dick barely refrains from saying, but I’m not anybody else.

Instead Dick says, “And why aren’t I welcome in your home? You come into mine so casually.”

Dick gets a certain kind of thrill in watching the blood drain from the other man’s face. In the background the man’s wife retreats out of view. Dick would be worried if he didn’t already know who’s side she’s on. Good on her for knowing not to mess with the Wayne name. Shame that Fabricci isn’t the type of man who listens to his spouse. Dick has a feeling that if he did they might not even be living in Gotham. A man like this could probably do well elsewhere. 

  
Dick would bet a good amount of money on Fabricci’s wife being a Gothamite. At least one person in this house respects the Wayne name and influence. All Dick had to do was knock and she’d opened the door and opened her mouth with everything she knew. Like she’d been waiting for him to show up. She almost looked relieved to have told him everything. It’s not often that Dick feels close to god, but as he sat across from her at the dining table, listening to her divulging every single detail she could remember, he almost felt like a priest hearing a confession.

“I can’t promise that you’ll be spared,” Dick had told her. She’d closed her eyes like she knew. “But I will do my best. I’ll remember what you’ve done for my family today. It takes great courage and great strength to go through what you have. And it takes a great deal of character to know when to cop up to when something’s wrong. I can promise you, after tonight, your husband’s part in this will be over.”

“Over?” She’d repeated.

Dick did not elaborate. She didn’t really need him to anyway.

“Bludhaven is mine,” Dick says plainly. “And I could have sworn that everyone knew that. But you came in with your guns and your drugs and your money, and I can’t help but wonder if perhaps it was a mistake on your part. Some sort of simple oversight. Maybe you didn’t realize that your little grab for power had spilled over the borders. If that’s the case I thought why not talk this out, all quiet, away from everyone else. You know. In case it was a mistake.”

Ah, the men of bravado and pride. They are so easy to bait. Dick feels a small curl of satisfaction as Fabricci tilts his chin up in defiance.

“And if it wasn’t, Grayson?”

“Then we have a problem, you and I, and it’s a problem we’re going to settle tonight. One way, or another.” 

“Yeah? And how are you going to do that?” Unusual confidence for someone in his position. Dick doesn’t know if that’s real or fake. Or maybe there’s something else worth poking at here.

“I had thought we could talk it out over dinner. Peace isn’t made on an empty stomach, but you never showed up. Your poor wife didn’t seem to know where you were either. Or when you’d be back. Long day at work, Fabricci? What sort of trouble were you trying to cause today?”

Fabricci glares at him, face red and blotchy with fury rather than whatever was causing it earlier. 

The smile never slips from his face. The harsh and angry one-sided silence is broken by the ring of a phone.

“One moment,” Dick pulls his phone out of his pocket, not looking at the screen as he answers. “What’s up, little D?”

“Are you still at Fabricci’s?” Damian sounds slightly out of breath, wound up tight like a trap ready to spring, and heated past a point of safe handling. 

Dick’s smile, for the first time tonight, wavers.

“Yes. He and I are having a nice little chat. Why? Is there something you’d like me to ask him? Should I put you on speaker?”

“There was a shoot out,” Damian replies. “Near the theater house.”

Tim’s house.

Dick’s grip tightens on the phone, and his smile slides away from morning star to something brighter. Something meaner. Something infinitely vast, infinitely furious, and immeasurably lethal.

The thing about stars is that they are not immortal. The thing about stars is that with something that large, something that indescribably and incomprehensibly present, there is no way for that kind of death to go quietly.

When a star dies the rest of time and history feels it.

When Dick Grayson stops smiling the world takes notice. And it runs to hide and pray to saints who’ve barred the gates and martyrs who’ve turned their faces away.

“Thompson has him stable last I was informed but he’s still in surgery,” Damian says. “Cain and Todd are already on their way.”

“And where are you?”

“I was with him.” Damian pauses, but only for a moment. His voice gets soft. If someone was a fool they would say it goes frail. Childlike, almost. If someone had more brain cells than the fool who called it frail, they would call it warm. And if someone had more brain cells than either of those two dunces they would say Damian’s voice was fond. “Drake covered for me.”

Dick breathes in, a star getting ready, “Well what would you expect, D? That’s what family does. B say anything?”

“Father is not the most particularly verbose under stress.”

“Right. But?”

Dick pulls the phone away from his ear and switches it to speaker, thumbing the volume up to max so Fabricci can hear.

“If there is one thing Father cannot tolerate even more than guns,” Damian says after three heartbeats worth of blood and breath, “It’s injury to his people. All restrictions are, for now, off. To use Todd’s phrasing, it’s hunting season.”

Dick’s smile holds shadows that the stygian catacombs of Hell would turn away from.

“I’ll be there.” Dick hangs up, stowing his phone back into his pocket. “Is that why you were late for dinner, Fabricci? You know. You could have just said you had a prior appointment with my little brothers. You see, if there’s any exception to any rule it’s family.” Dick rolls his shoulders, fingers curling. “That’s the one thing you should never fuck around with. Especially in Gotham.”


	9. hunting season 2

Tim is, generally speaking, not nearly as smart as he’s tricked most of the world into thinking.

The rest of the world thinks that Tim is so, so clever. That he’s a genius. That he’s got a near omniscient sense for planning and manipulating like Bruce Wayne come again a second time. Tim would laugh at those people if it didn’t sting so deeply.

Because Tim worked hard to be where he is. He isn’t a genius. He’s not naturally talented like Dick is with people or Jason is with words. He doesn’t have Cass’ talent for combat and he’ll never have Damian’s inborn sense of nobility and self-assurance.

If it seems like Tim knows everything about everyone and knows everything that will come to pass it’s because he’s worked hard to create a network that’s going to tell him, worked hard to plan for literally anything, and worked hard to create a face that can bluff him straight through hell and past Saint Peter.

If Tim was smart. If he was a genius. If he was as good as everyone believes he is —

He wouldn’t be a Wayne. Tim would have at least one parent around and it wouldn’t be — it wouldn’t be like this. But it would be something else and there would still be some kind of meaning that doesn’t ring hollow and guilt-ridden to the name Jackson. If Tim were as smart as people like to whisper he is — breath laced in awe and fear and creeping guilt — Tim wouldn’t have lost so many people. And he wouldn’t have been tricked so many times like a fucking tool.

But he wasn’t a genius. He wasn’t that smart. He did get tricked (several times) and he didn’t learn his lesson properly the first time around. And he paid for it. He’s still paying for it. He’ll pay for that for the rest of his fucking life and that’s just something he’s going to live with. It’s his shame to hold.

The only thing Tim can do against all of that is plan. Tim doesn’t know what’s going to happen in the future. But Tim’s got an imagination to make Willy Wonka hang up his hat and make the Sandman take notes. Tim can imagine all sorts of things. He can imagine all the infinite ways the world can fuck him over. And Tim can plan for those things that he’s already imagined happening. Tim can imagine for any number of scenarios.

So he does.

Tim planned for an attack. On himself, most likely because of how active his role is in the current project of suppressing the upstart crime groups and how much of a message taking him out would send for the mere fact that his face is semi-public and acknowledged as the official W.E. face, or on B just because little fish like to dream big. Damian or Dick would be possible secondary targets because they’re relatively easy to get to. Damian is usually near B or Tim. Dick gets around but he isn’t as heavily guarded as the rest of them are.

Cass would never get caught and most people are too afraid of Jason to try. They’re potential targets, but unlikely.

“Lonnie,” Tim says, lips barely moving as Damian grumbles about something in Tim’s living room. Maybe he’s spying for some project, who knows. It doesn’t really matter.

“Yes, boss?”

Tim shows Lonnie the text he got from O. Lonnie’s eyes narrow.

“I need you to escort Damian out of here,” Tim says quietly, doing his best to make sure his voice doesn’t carry. “Get him out and into Jason’s territory. No one’s stupid enough to start anything in broad daylight on his turf.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll head towards W.E.,” Tim says. “More of a spectacle, I suppose, if they catch me.”

Lonnie stares at him. “I should be taking you towards Todd. They aren’t going to target the boy.”

“They might. One Wayne is as good as any if they can’t catch the one they want,” Tim replies. “I’m not going to risk it.”

“I’m not going to risk you.”

“That’s unfortunate, I don’t care,” Tim’s voice firms. “He’s my brother. We have about twenty to thirty minutes to get him out of here and to safety. I’ve got Cullen and Harper en route to switch cars with you. You need to go now.”

“Again, I repeat, what about you.”

“What about me?”

“How,” Lonnie replies impatiently, “How, Drake, are you going to get away from this one? Humor me. Can you drive? No. Are you going to hobble away on your crutches and hope that by some miracle these people procure a conscience and realize it’s not sporting to go after a disabled person with machine guns? Or are you going to tell me it doesn’t hurt that much today?” Lonnie shoots a pointed glance over Tim’s shoulder towards Tim’s study where Tim’s been pretty much lying down and attempting to work all day.

“Lonnie. Don’t insult either of us by asking stupid questions. I’ll figure it out. I’ve worked through worse.” Tim’s lips quirk up. “Besides. I’ve always wanted to test how bullet proof my car is.”

Lonnie snarls and Tim seizes his arm.

“Don’t make me ask again,” Tim whispers hotly. “I need you to get my brother out of here. If you can’t do it tell me now because I’m not going to waste time on this.”

Lonnie breathes in through his teeth, nostrils flaring as he exhales. “I’ll do it. Drake I’m going to kill you myself if you don’t pull through this one. You made me a promise and you haven’t filled your end of it yet.”

“Heaven forbid I die before completing a bargain. Even the devil knows better,” Tim says. “Thank you.”

Lonnie frowns, squeezing Tim’s wrist before moving around him. “Little Prince, time to get you home to your monarch. If you’re done snooping about, of course. There’s business to be had and I, for one, am not in the mind to listen to it.”


	10. hunting season 3

Barbara can't say that she's a good person. Whatever power above that watches, unflinching and unceasingly indifferent, knows that she’s tried to be a good person. Her father is a good person. He’s a genuinely good person who’s doing his best with what he’s got and sometimes that means he makes questionable choices and has a list of priorities that isn’t exactly healthy. But he is a good person and whatever faults he has Babs can’t convince herself to hold that one against him.

She’d say she takes after her mother, but her mother was a good person, too.

Whatever it is that came out of her when she was driven into this corner is entirely, one hundred percent, a Barbara Gordon original. It’s no one else’s contribution but her own.

She’s made deals with people who aren’t good by any stretch of the word. She’s done business with people who’ve gone on to hurt other people with the information and tools she’s given them. She’s enabled acts of violence and destruction. It feels like a cop-out to say it but — it’s Gotham. It’s kind of expected at this point. A Gotham without violence and destruction is a Metropolis without sunlight and optimism. 

If someone were to strip the violence from Gotham you might as well tear the entire city down and remove it from the face of the Earth because whatever would be left wouldn’t be Gotham City at all.

Some nights Barbara can settle what she’s sown into the world with the belief that even if it wasn’t her, these people would’ve found the information or tools through some other means. That even without her, these people would continue to do their violence and feed their gullets with money and power by whatever means necessary. If she’s the one dispensing it at least she has some control over where it goes, at least she knows. At least there’s some part of Gotham’s enormous shadow that she can put a name and a face to, and if need be — remove later.

Sometimes Dad says she should’ve been a cop or a lawyer with her kind bull-headed pursuit but she thinks that underneath that he’s glad that she isn’t. Aside from the high turn over rate both professions — in Gotham and its surrounding sister cities — are an ugly business. More so, she imagines, than in the rest of the country. 

If she ever had dreams of becoming a police officer they were shot dead along with her ability to walk. She’s sure that there are police officers in wheel chairs, but she isn’t so sure that those police offers have the inner need that she does. The dark and roiling hissing mass of rage that demands justice by whatever means necessary. 

Some nights Barbara closes her eyes and all she sees is her hand on the doorknob. And then the gun. And then the ceiling as she falls. And she bites her cheek so hard to pull out of that memory that she washes blood out of her mouth. She can’t be a police officer with that in her heart. Because it wants to hurt, it wants to find the worst in people and drag it out and make that hurt too.

Barbara has made her peace with the fact that her life will never have peace. Not by any measure.

So what she has to do is settle. Compromise.

And part of that is knowing that she’s not going to make a difference in the world, generally speaking. But she can make a difference moment by moment, case by case, and that’s her giving Gotham the middle finger and saying I’m still here.

So when Barbara catches the news about the convoy converging on Tim Drake’s location she doesn’t hesitate to call him directly. She’d known that there was talk about some of the smaller families joining hands to chip at the Wayne family. She just didn’t think they’d go through with it. There is always talk about some kind of uprising against the Wayne family.

There’s always some informant, some weak link ready to spill and turn sides, some sign that somewhere the Waynes are slipping, some kind of — whatever.

It has never ended well for the fool who thought to leap where they looked and thought they saw safe ground.

Later Barbara may feel guilty for not acting on this sooner.

But right now all she can feel is frustration.

“You need to go,” Barbara says as soon as Tim picks up.

“An attack?” Tim asks after a momentary pause.

“They’re going to be at yours in thirty minutes more or less,” Barbara says. “You don’t have enough firepower to hold them off. I don’t have anyone near you.”

Tim is so quiet she thinks the line has dropped but it hasn’t. That’s not Tim’s speed.

“Damian is here,” he says. Barbara curses. “I have Lonnie. O, I’m going to text you his number. Send whatever you have there. I need to get D out of here.”

“And what about you?”

“If they’re coming here they’re coming for me, I’ll stay behind and make sure they’re distracted.”

“Again. With what firepower.”

“I didn’t say I as going to fight,” Tim replies. “I said I was going to stay behind. They want a firefight with the Waynes? Fine. They’re going to get a firefight with us.”

“Drake. You need to get the fuck out of there.”

“No. Not it if it means them splitting up to search — I can’t risk Damian. Besides. Just because I’m not going to fight back doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy. I’m headed to W.E.”

“Should I start sending you wheelchair suggestions now Tim? Or are you aiming straight for gravestone territory?”

“I’ll settle with some nice flowers. Gotta go. Thank you, O.”

Now he hangs up and Barbara swears at the phone that chimes with Tim’s text. As she quickly starts sending the information to Machin’s number she’s already drawing up a group text to the rest of the Wayne Family with the other hand.

She’s done what she can. She can give tools and information with intent galore but it means nothing if the person using them chooses to use what’s given for another purpose.

But she’s done something. 

Compromise.

Has there ever been a word more bitter to the tongue?


	11. hunting season 4

Strictly speaking, most nightclubs in Gotham aren’t open at around noon and most of them don’t sell hamburgers and thick cut wedge fries. Strictly speaking, they also don’t have neon orange soda that’s so sugary it’s going to make your teeth the instant the smell of the fizz touches them, and they definitely don’t have to go options.

But this is Jason’s territory and despite how much most people hate Jason’s guts and general existence, there are people he has endeared himself to. And those people are usually the staff of establishments that remember what it was like before Jason crashed into this area and loudly, boldly, firmly, and unwaveringly declared that this place was his and if someone so much as sneezed wrong he was going to come down on them so hard they’d leave an exact, down to the eyelash, negative imprint upon the pavement. And when Jason means someone sneezed wrong he means someone didn’t pay what they were owed, someone took advantage where they shouldn’t, someone didn’t take no for an answer, someone didn’t respect boundaries, someone didn’t respect someone period.

Working girls and boys have it hard enough, they don’t need the rest of that bullshit if Jason can help it and he definitely will.

So when Jason comes around, most businesses — mostly small, mostly seedy, mostly struggling — will gladly throw their doors open for him. 

And whatever businesses wouldn’t do that for him would definitely do it for his sister, who is everything every single man doesn’t know that they should fear wrapped up in blood and bone and fists that hit that can hit so hard they’ll bruise blood.

Jason had poked his head into the Lamp Lighter and called out, “You need to learn to lock your door.”

Cassandra had stuck her head in right after him and added on, “Or set a trap up around it.”

At which point both were quickly welcomed inside and much pleasant and meaningful small talk was had. Eventually it circled around to the topic of lunch and the two were seated at the bar and presented with burgers and fries which aren’t on the menu but the private kitchen the girls use on the second floor did have the fixings for so there you go. Also a to go bag because given their line of work one never knows when they have to make a run for it.

But nightclubs are nocturnal spaces so Jason and Cass eventually waved their hosts off to go back to sleep, to go back to resting, to go back to whatever they were doing to prepare for their next night ahead.

The Lamp Lighter is safe under the Red Hood’s watch.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Jason says as soon as he’s reasonably sure they’re mostly alone. If anyone’s eavesdropping Jason wouldn’t fault them, not here. Not where information is so essential to survival. It’s the illusion of privacy that counts. 

“Sounds like you’re complaining,” Cassandra says, opening her mouth wide to take a big bite.

“If you flip it upside down the insides won’t squeeze out,” Jason says.

Cassandra just looks at him and pointedly, first bite not even completely swallowed, takes another bite. Mayo smears on the side of her lip and juice dribbles out onto her hands and wrists. Jason rolls his eyes.

“I’m not the one running the risk of ruining white pants,” he points out.

“Don’t underestimate me,” she replies. Or he thinks she says, hard to tell around a mouth full of beef. “I can’t just visit my little brother?”

“You could,” Jason replies. “But I have a feeling that this is more than that. Something wrong? Who do you need me to talk circles around while you beat them up?”

Cassandra takes her time eating as Jason jumps over the side of the counter to search for salt.

“I have a bad feeling,” she says.

“Oh?” Jason emerges from behind the counter with a salt shaker and a bright pink paper umbrella that he drops into her soda.

“It’s not quiet.”

“It’s Gotham, Cass, it’s never quiet.”

“But it should be more quiet,” Cassandra insists. “Four months into Tim’s plan, it should be very quiet.” She frowns. “That means it’s going to get very loud.”

Jason braces his hands on the bar, thinking, before he climbs up and over it again to sit with her. 

“Replacement worried?”

“Always.”

“About this, specifically?”

Cassandra sighs, unhappy. She kicks his ankle when he starts to sprinkle salt on her fries.

“Kick me again and I can’t promise I won’t drop the entire shaker on them. Cass, I’m not a mind reader. I’m not as clever as you or Drake.”

“Liar,” Cass mutters. “I think he’s resigned.”

Jason’s hand pauses as he was about to grab some napkins. “About?”

“I don’t know. I’m the one who isn’t as clever as you or Tim. Not about,” Cass waves her hand, gesturing the their surroundings. “Plans. Manipulating. Predicting.”

Jason brushes his fingers over his chin, his mouth, thinking.

“If he’s resigned he knows what’s coming. Or has a general idea,” he mutters. “And he doesn’t like it. But…if he’s resigned it must be necessary. And if he knows he’s already planned for it. I don’t think — fuck. No, we should be worried. The fucker orchestrated his own assassination on live television as part of a plan once. Shit. I don’t think he’s got any other expendable body parts to spare. Tonsils, appendix, spleen — which, if you’d ask me and anyone else sensible, is actually a required body part — gallbladder. Pretty sure he’s also missing part of a kidney. But there’s no point in asking him, you know he’d just — “

Both of their phones go off at once and they immediately go to check. O’s emergency number.

A set of coordinates uncomfortably close to Drake’s place, moving in fast, and only the text — twenty minutes —

Jason’s moving before the words even register, mind already plotting out the fastest way to get there, or at least intercept —

Fuck. He’s going to need to steal a car — no, that’s time. He needs to borrow a, that’s even more time shit fucker balls — fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Cass slams into him from the back, arm going around his neck.

“Shut up,” she says, voice firm. “My bike is three streets down, take the roofs, faster. Get O on the line. You talk, I drive. Move.”


	12. hunting season 5

Tim has three surprisingly coherent thoughts as the first round of bullets begins to spray out.

One: This one might actually kill him where all other attempts have failed.

Tim’s back and arms and legs are burning, pretty much screaming, with strain. It’s already been a fucking awful day pain-wise. Lonnie wasn’t wrong about that. Lonnie isn’t really wrong about most things but Tim’s not going to say it to his face, lest he get an ego.

Well. Lonnie already kind of has one but it’s mostly tolerable in that Lonnie is Lonnie and Tim likes to think Lonnie’s sort of his friend. And friends sometimes tolerate each other with an eye roll and a sigh. Tim sometimes has to tolerate Lonnie with extra bail money and maybe a fond look of resignation when Lonnie decides he’s going to do something that’s running exactly perpendicular to whatever Tim was trying to do but it’s Lonnie so he just has to go with it.

Just like how sometimes Tim has an entire vehicle convoy going after him and he’s driving by himself when he really shouldn’t be, but Lonnie doesn’t fight that too much because he understands that Tim needs to keep his family safe no matter what. Because Lonnie understands families and really, if anything, Lonnie should be calling him a fucking hero for this.

Tim’s somehow managed to get as far as the other side of Sprang Bridge — truly is impressive considering how his vision is blurring out at the edges from the sheer amount of pain he’s in — and he has no idea how he forgot to account for the fact that Jason has recently been in a pissing contest with the Sprangs.

It’s not like they’re active players in this specific bit of Gotham warfare, but they certainly aren’t going to make this easy on him.

So Tim does what any rational being would do. Tim brake checks, mourns his car, spins it around and drives in reverse towards Grant. He’s never going to make it to WE and he might have been lying a little when he told Lonnie that’s what he was going to do — Lonnie should’ve figured out that Tim would never make it, the onus for realizing how unrealistic that claim was is on him — but he’s basically saying come and get me you bastards and if that isn’t the biggest glowing target above his head he doesn’t know what is.

Once upon a time Tim was a very, very good driver. Once upon a time Tim could drive circles around Jason and Dick combined.

He can keep this going for hours if he needs to. He won’t, though. He can’t.

So Tim takes one hand off the clutch, flips his pursuers the middle finger and smiles.

He meant it when he said he isn’t nearly as put together, composed, smart, or generally rationally minded as the rest of his family. He really has no idea why they think he is. It might be because he regularly wears a suit and tie. It might be because he’s the only one of them who can drink coffee the same way B does.

Tim’s heart pounds in his chest as he hears glass shattering. He’s already lost one rearview mirror. He sends the car spinning again so he can take a hard turn towards Monolith — he might be able to drag them close to the GCPD, make things easier. Again, he’s not actually going to get there but a man can dream.

Two: If thought one proves to be false then someone in his family really will kill him after this. And if not they’ll make him wish they did because they’ll probably attempt to smother him to death. He’ll probably be kissing his independence goodbye for the next five years of his life or something like that.

God knows they’ll never him go back to his own house after this. Never mind that the shooting isn’t happening at said house. It’s going to be the exact same reasoning as the last time he was shot in broad daylight:

The people in his territory don’t know they’re in his territory because he’s such a — as Jason would say it — subtle motherfucker. Not all of them can ride around with cherry red helmets and be known instantly for what they are. Some of them have day jobs.

The theater house is too far from anyone else for it to be really safe — Tim would point out that’s the reason he chose the property, with B’s blessing, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut on that point.

It is one of the shittiest, least defensible, absolute worst place to get cornered in. And that’s mostly true. Tim can’t really argue that one. But he feels like he should be able to.

Dick might actually make good on his promise to take all of Tim’s keys away from him after this. Tim grimaces when he hears one of his tires get blown out. He doesn’t hear the screaming of metal on pavement, so it’s not a complete blow out. Yet. God he worked hard on this car.

Jason is going to be so mad. So mad. Tim’s stomach actually hurts a little thinking about it. It’s amazing that he can tell that this one is a different kind of hurt from the rest of the hurt but he can.

Damian might never speak to him again after this. That could be a mixed blessing on its own. It’s not like Tim’s going to apologize for this.

And there it is.

Tim’s car finally gives up, even though Tim’s proud of her for such a good showing. They covered about a third of Gotham in less than an hour. Truly impressive. Almost supernatural, really.

If Tim were Jason he would know the exact saint to thank for this one.

(It’s Jude.)

Tim breathes out, hands sweating as he watches the approaching cars in his rearview. Does he get out and face this half standing or does he wait here and hope they don’t hit something that’ll make the car explode? Tim can already hear police sirens so it’s not like they have long.

Three: I see you.

Tim’s eyes focus with a clarity that he isn’t sure can be adrenaline or something else — something angrier, something meaner and infinitely more vengeful — as he takes in every single detail. The plates. The make and model. As the cars stop and people get out with their guns and their shirts open at the collar and their machomismo — as Jason would say — on full display as they preen in their triumph at getting him Tim takes in every single detail of their faces.

Because if Tim survives it, and he’s rapidly realizing how heavy that word is weighing, it’s going to be with this memory. Every single bullet, every single screech of tire, every single smirk of ill-believed triumph —

Tim is going to remember it. He’s going to remember it and he’s going to hold it in himself like so much dark, hissing, fury. And when the time comes when this memory serves its’ purpose, he will release it. It will be at the worst possible time. It will be at the best possible time. It will be when these people think they are on the top of the world. It will be when they think they have nothing left to lose.

Tim is going to be there, waiting, with this memory, to remind them — gently, patiently, factually — I’m not done with you yet.


	13. hunting season 6

By whatever strange twist of fate, Bruce arrives at the hospital before Tim does. So he’s there. He’s there when they take him in. He’s there when Damian, trailed by Machin, comes in mere minutes after Tim’s rushed into surgery and Bruce is in a waiting room that cleared out remarkably fast, alone with his thoughts and his guilt and his fear and his worry.

“Drake," Damian says, face ashen.

Bruce lightly touches the empty seat next to him. “They took him into surgery about five minutes ago.”

Damian doesn’t look consoled by this, nor should he be. The fact that Tim is with the best doctors in Gotham right now getting the medical attention he needs is no guarantee of survival.

One would think that after the first time this happened Bruce would be used to it. Like getting the flu.

No. Every time one of his children is hurt, every single time one of them ends up in the hospital, it’s fresh and new all over again.

It’s sitting in a police station, clutching a handful of loose pearls, hearing a scream being drowned out and cut off by a gunshot. It’s a blur of blue and red lights and the glare of fluorescent bulbs and a hand on his shoulder trying and falling short of comforting. Not for a lack of trying, but for a lack of an inability to process comfort. It’s a familiar voice loved, but not the one wanted at that exact moment, exclaiming, _“Master Bruce!”_, and then the familiar smells of a car used every day up until that night and then never again.

Every time it’s every death all over again and Bruce is getting too old for this.

He focuses on his youngest child, who’s sitting but tense like he’d rather do anything but sit. Like he would climb walls and scratch at the ceiling if he could reach, his worry so far beyond his body’s capacity to contain.

Bruce examines Damian, searching for any other sign of injury. Aside from the wan look of worry and fear he looks, physically at least, unharmed.

The worst part is that Bruce understands. It would be one thing if Tim was alone and was arrogant enough to think he could handle it by himself. That’s a whole different kind of lecture that Bruce has had to dole out more than a handful of times to each of his children.

But it wasn’t that.

It was a calculated risk — heavily skewed against Tim’s favor — that would protect someone else. What can Bruce possibly say against that? Tim might have saved his brother’s life today. At the cost of his own. And Bruce would lecture on how it shouldn’t be that way. But Bruce wasn’t there and he has no right to scold Tim when he doesn’t know the circumstances. It might have been the only choice he could have made to ensure Damian’s safety.

And when it comes to family — especially for Tim — if a choice he makes puts their life on the line at any percent it isn’t a viable one. Bruce doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone so tenacious in their loyalty. God knows that everyone in his family loves each other, is loyal, and after all that they’ve been through they’d never let one of their siblings die if they could help it.

But Bruce is fairly certain Tim is the only one of them who’s taken it to a truly frightening degree of self-destructiveness.

But still. He can’t say anything about that. Sometimes the only choice given is still a terrible choice. And when given a terrible choice, there isn’t a single one of them who wouldn’t grit their teeth and take it.

He puts his hand on Damian’s shoulder, marvels at how the years have gone by since Damian was ten and full of a ten year old’s arrogance and desires, proclaiming himself as the one and only suitable heir to the Wayne name. And now here’s Damian, truly concerned over the brother who by all accounts is the biggest obstacle to him claiming the inheritance he used to loudly and confidently proclaim was his and his alone.

“Damian,” Bruce says and he doesn’t need to say anything else because Damian caves fast. He slumps, his normally immaculate posture crumbling as he puts his head in his hands and lets out a muffled scream of frustration.

“How could he be so stupid?” Damian seethes. “There’s always another way.”

Dick’s influence. If only that could have worn off a little more on Tim — trust Tim to pick everything else up from his family members except for that particular flavor of optimism.

“You can tell Tim about all of them once he wakes up and is lucid,” Bruce says. “It would be a good test for checking cognizance wouldn’t it?”

Damian nods into his hands before abruptly standing, “Excuse me,” and beginning to pace around the small room.

Bruce gets up to speak with Machin, leaning against the wall facing the door.

He and Machin have their differences, and they’ll never truly get along. Bruce represents everything Machin wants to tear down — old money, white, patriarchal power, capitalist monopolies, the old ways — and Machin’s structure and belief for a new world seems too untenable and dream-like for Bruce’s ability of suspension of disbelief to work around.

But Machin and Tim are friends of a sort. And the only reason Machin would be with Damian right now is because Tim told him to be.

“Thank you,” Bruce says and means all of it. Even if it’s a slap to Machin’s face.

The man’s jaw clenches and he meets Bruce’s eyes with rage and conflict, “Don’t mention it.”

Bruce nods and turns away. If he had left a friend to Tim’s fate — even at that friend’s express request — he wouldn’t be in the mood to be thanked for it either.

His phone buzzes in his pocket at the same time Damian’s chirps across the room.

He goes to check and sees that Cass and Jason are five minutes out. No word from Dick yet. Stephanie won’t be here for another half hour — she was on the mainland.

Bruce also has two missed calls from Clark and one from Queen.

He sends a quick text to Alfred to let him know that there’s no update and that Damian is with him now.

“Father,” Damian says, voice hot and barely constrained.

“Yes.”

Damian’s expression is dark and blazing from across the room. “Respectfully, you aren’t going to be able to hold any of us back this time. You understand this, yes?”

Bruce’s shoulders are heavy with dread, with tired guilt, with shame, with remorse, with so many years of _trying and failing_.

“I know,” Bruce replies softly. “I know.”


	14. hunting season 7

Tim's still unconscious when Jason gets a call from Dick. Alfred has taken Damian home to change and grab some stuff for Tim, B is sitting with Tim in the room, and Cass is standing outside the room like a sentinel holding vigil.

Holding vigil. Fuck, Jason hopes that’s not what this is.

Jason hasn’t seen Tim for himself, yet, he’s due to go in when B gets tired of sitting in the dark and watching Tim’s heart monitor. Yeah, that’s gonna be a while.

He runs a hand over his face. They’d made it to the hospital in record time considering they initially were on their way towards Tim’s place and had to do a complete turn around.

Machin, supposedly, was here but by the time Jason and Cass burst in he’d long gone. Jason isn’t sure if he wants to thank the guy or throttle him. Frankly, Jason isn’t sure if he _could_ beat him in a fight. Machin’s surprisingly competent for a nerd who reads Marxist theory to get his jollies. Maybe that’s why he and Tim get along so well. You know. When they actually get along and aren’t at crosshairs with each other.

“What,” Jason snaps into the phone.

“Fourth level east side parking garage,” Dick says. “I need you.”

Jason’s temper flares as he carefully keeps his voice low, “Replacement’s currently out cold with a fuckin’ tube down his throat and you want me to walk you from your car to the hospital? Are you serious right now, Goldie?”

“_Jason_,” Dick repeats, voice gaining a dark crackle that Jason’s only heard a handful of times before in his life. It’s the kind of dark that makes Jason’s hair stand on end and his stomach turn into painful knots. Dick doesn’t get pissed often — at least, not like this — but when that man snaps. Fuck. If the sun projected absolute darkness it would be just as blinding and just as horrifying. “I need you.”

“If I miss my turn at his bedside and he _dies _before I can verbally tear a strip out of him it’s going to be _your_ ass.”

Dick hangs up before Jason can. He walks out of the waiting room, catches Cass’ eye down the hall and jerks his head in the vague direction of where he thinks the parking garage is. Cass nods once, otherwise completely still.

If someone were to stab a spear straight into the earth, through the mantle and the core and out the other end, grinding the rotation of the planet to a sudden halt and stopping the rest of the solar system with it, that spear would be right where Cass is standing.

His sister is one _scary_ fuck and he’s glad he’s never done anything that would warrant her showing up at his door.

The fourth level of the parking garage is empty except for Dick’s car right in the center of the level. Jason glances around for security cameras and notices that they’re all pointed away. O’s work, probably.

“What,” Jason calls out, voice ringing out as he approaches Dick’s car, “What the _fuck_ was so important you had to call me out here? I meant it. He dies and I’m not there to yell at him to bring him back to this side of life? _I’m kicking your ass_ so hard that you could get an imprint of my fucking boot treads off of it.”

Dick pushes off the side of the car, striding towards him, expression worryingly blank, and he shoves something into Jason’s chest.

Jason grunts, catching it before it can fall. Keys.

“You wanted valet parking?” Jason snaps.

“I’m not you,” Dick says apropos of fucking nothing. Jason stares at him, wondering if maybe Dick’s the one who needs medical attention and is being weird about asking for it.

“Were you so riled up to talk to me that you started before I got here? What are you talking about? Of course you aren’t me.”

“I’m not you,” Dick repeats, eyes sharp and burning like suns set into his face. “I’m good at people to a degree. People give me what I want because I can smile pretty and because I’m good at making what I want seem like something they want too. But when that doesn’t work all bets are off for me.”

“Yeah, and?”

“I have Fabricci,” Dick says, “Do whatever you need to do. Get him to talk. Get him to spill every single detail. Because I could only get so far and if I pressed further I’d press too hard and end up breaking him and then he’d be useless.”

Jason’s fist clenches around the keys, metal digging into his palm.

“You have _who_.”

Dick’s eyes blaze steady and mean. He doesn’t repeat himself.

Jason can feel his vision narrowing in on the car, blood in his heart and his veins and arteries rising to a war-drum march of _bastard, fucker, shit-heel, piece of garbage, kill, slaughter, revenge_.

Jason breathes out, a hiss through his teeth that feels like it should ignite sparks.

He tilts his head to the right, cracking his neck, then to the left, and then rolls his shoulders.

“You call me if he wakes up,” Jason says, shoulder checking Dick as he passes. The car unlocks with a chirp and Jason practically rips the turn open. “Tell Cass to come down in about…fifteen minutes.”

“You think you’ll need that long?”

“Oh, no. I’ll have him singing for me in ten,” Jason replies. “The rest of it is just because I don’t want him coherent enough to string together two words without pissing himself. You told O?”

He smiles down at the man lying all cramped and small inside, unconscious but not for long. He’s already a little beat up and Jason’s willing to bet there’s matching blood splatter and bruises on Dick if he was willing to take a closer look.

“Cameras off, and she’s got people diverting people away from this parking garage,” Dick replies. “It’s staff only anyway. Go wild.”

“Oh Dick,” Jason sighs, slamming the trunk shut again — let the bastard wake up in the dark and know that as frightening as that is, it’ll be even worse once he can see again — “You even need to say that?”


	15. hunting season 8

They removed Tim’s breathing circuit and switched him to a regular nasal mask a few hours ago. The doctors said that he should be out of the realm of respiratory failure, but Tim’s lungs are still weak and they’re observing for signs of infection. The possibility for one of his lungs to rupture a second time once he’s mobile is not out of the realm of imagination.

It feels like Bruce has been here watching Tim for any sign of movement or change for weeks and minutes at the same time. As though he blinked and he was suddenly in this room with Tim lying prone on the hospital bed, looking gray and washed out. And simultaneously — it feels like he’s always been here.

He needs to go back to the manor. He needs to shower, change, talk with Alfred, answer his messages, make arrangements for who will take care of business while Tim is in recovery. He needs to check in on WE and see where projects stand. Bruce needs to check in on his other children to see how they’re handling — not well, most likely.

He closes his eyes and all he can see is a flash of pearls, shadows, red numbers, and the brilliance of several pounds of C4. Bruce closes his eyes and it’s every death at once. He opens them to a possible death in progress and he feels so very, very old. And young. Bruce exists outside of time and is shackled to its steady, indifferent progression. He is a young boy suddenly alone and he is a grown man having people slip through his fingers.

Like blood. Like sand. Like pearls.

But he can’t seem to move. He’s anchored here. Unable to look away, and also somehow, unable to look closer. Bruce doesn’t know if he can handle the details of Tim’s self-destructive nature, but to look away is somehow a disservice. And if he looks away — what if that’s the last he ever sees?

He hears Cassandra lightly rap her knuckles on the doorframe.

“Jason and I are heading out,” Cass says. She’s always quiet, but her voice is somehow too loud in this room that’s just Bruce and the machines working at recording Tim’s literal life. “Dick’s on his way. Can he come in?”

Bruce nods. He should say something. He should ask her how she is. He should ask how things are looking outside of the world of Tim’s hospital room. “Take care of each other.”

Cass closes the door with a purposeful click and Bruce closes his eyes.

Pearls. Shadows. Numbers. Heat-light. Now this. The glow of monitors, the light through slatted blinds, the murmur of hospital noise.

So much to be contained in the blink of an eye. So much to be lost.

The sound of the machines changes and his eyes slam open, all of his focus narrowed down to this room, this moment, _this_.

Tim’s eyes flutter and Bruce is there, standing next to him. His hand hovers over Tim, unsure of where is safe to touch, before uselessly resting on the hospital bed next to Tim’s head.

Blue eyes slide open, hazy and Tim’s arms weakly start to move.

“Tim,” Bruce says, careful, “Tim, you’re in the hospital. Don’t move. Can you understand me?”

Tim’s lips move, sound imperceptible.

His eyes close again, brows twitching downward in frustration.

“Are you in pain?” Bruce asks. Tim turns his head slightly towards Bruce. “I’ll get a nurse.”

Tim’s eyes open and he fixes his gaze on Bruce, hand attempting to raise — uncertain and weak. His fingers curl feebly.

Tim’s mouth opens and closes mutely, trying to speak. His words come out as quiet puffs, mere exhales. Tim frowns in frustration.

Bruce puts a hand as lightly as he can on Tim’s shoulder, the other on the hand raised.

“_No_,” Tim’s mouth shapes clearly.

“Stay down,” Bruce says as gently as he knows how, “You had three gunshot wounds. One of them broke some ribs.”

Tim’s eyes close, but Bruce can see them flickering behind his pale eyelids. Thinking.

“Stop,” Bruce insists. “You need to rest, recover.”

Tim’s head shakes minutely. Bruce wonders how hard Tim is struggling for coherency right now. How much of all of this Tim’s actually processing.

Tim tries to speak again, but Bruce can’t catch it.

He leans forward, as Time draws in another breath.

“_Fabricci, Warren, Sullivan, Carlisle_ — “

Bruce’s body almost flinches away, shock and despair.

Tim’s first words out of waking up from surgery after nearly being killed after a car chase around North Gotham and a shoot out is to list names.

Bruce closes his eyes. He forces himself to focus.

Pearls. Numbers. Monitors.

He listens. He takes each name that Tim survived to speak of and burns them into his memory.

“_Ibanescu, Reds_,” Tim’s whisper tapers out. When Bruce turns to look Tim’s fallen unconscious again. He doesn’t know if that’s all the names or if Tim finished.

He looks up as the door opens, light spilling into the room.

Dick stands there, a nurse behind him.

“He was awake,” Bruce says to them both, “But he’s fallen asleep again.”

Dick makes room for the nurse to check Tim’s vitals and Bruce goes to join him in the hallway.

“Did he say anything?” Dick asks.

“Names,” Bruce closes his eyes, and puts a hand over his face. “First thing he says right after waking up is a list of names.”

Dick is quiet for a moment before he says, carefully, “Are you going to share those names with me or should I guess?”

“Most are the same as what Damian already told us,” Bruce replies. “We’ll talk about this later.”

When Bruce opens his eyes to look at his eldest Dick looks distinctly unhappy with his rebuff, but he also looks like he isn’t willing to press it. At least, not here, not now. If it was Jason or Cassandra standing in front of him right now, Bruce is sure that it would be a different story.

“Go home,” Dick says, expression softening. He squeezes Bruce’s shoulder. “You look like a mess. I’m sure it’d knock Tim right out again if he woke up and first thing he saw was you looking like this.”

“He did, technically, see me like this.”

“See you while lucid, B.” Neither of them point out that he was lucid enough to pass on names. It’s the banter, it’s the small talk, it’s the social protocol that’s necessary. Dick sighs. “I’ll be here.”

“You look worse than me,” Bruce points out, gaze pointedly going towards a faint pink smear at the corner of Dick’s cuff. Dick made the effort to wash the blood out, at least. But out of all of them the only one who’s ever really mastered Alfred’s ability to remove stains is — actually. None of them.

“But I’ve got a beautiful face,” Dick replies. “And a generally sunny disposition. If he opens his eyes — lucid this time — and sees you looking like you’re attending a wake he’s going to think he _died_ for real.”


	16. hunting season 9

Inside her are two things that are always fighting. Like oil. Like water. Like fire. Like ice. Always fighting, like hope and despair.

There is her nature, which Cassandra knows is violence. Cassandra knows that she is born from violence, she was raised in violence, and someday if she lives true to that nature, she will die by violence. The fact of it is that Cassandra’s native tongue is bodies, blood, bone. She’s made her peace with this. It is her nature, but it is not _her_. Violence and all of its many forms cannot possibly come to summarize Cassandra as a whole. It is a part of her, a large part. But it is only that.

Part.

There is this, also. _Compassion_. Passion. They are two words, built together. Feeling for others. Jason and his big nerd brain taught her the root of the word — _to suffer._ Because passion is suffering. It is enduring a powerful feeling that surges and rises like a tide. It is blood. It is so much feeling that it isn’t words anymore. It’s actions. It’s without compare. Cassandra does not know the words for the overwhelming surge of feeling that she gets when she thinks about her family. About Bruce and Stephanie and Barbara and Dick —

It isn’t possible for there to be words and if someone told her there was one she would think them either a liar or a fool because there is not a single sound that can come out of a mouth that could circle around all of this in her chest and tie it up like a present.

This is also a part of her.

And these parts fight. They shouldn’t — violence can be passionate. It can be done for passion, for feeling. Passion can be violent, too. They are words that hold hands in history.

It was a crime of passion — that’s something people say a lot. Usually in reference to a murder.

But it’s the type of compassion that holds her back, holds her away from most darkness.

Because Bruce taught her kindness and mercy as compassion. He taught her understanding and empathy as compassion. Violence is not always the answer. Violence should never be the answer in a perfect world. This is not a perfect world, but you have to try anyway.

Your hands, Bruce had told her, are capable of more than destroying things.

Cassandra likes to believe him. She likes to believe this father she chose.

But it is moments like these, where her entire body feels on fire and floating, where she thinks he is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Never so wrong as now.

Her entire body screams to make someone else hurt. To make someone else suffer. To take out her _passion_ onto someone else.

Cassandra wants the world to hurt for what’s happened to her little brother.

He’s hers. Hers, hers, hers. Tim smiled at her unsure and awkward but trying, afraid of her, but wanting very much not to be. She saw it all. His fear, his apprehension — and above all, his firm, loyal faith. She remembers both of them years younger and how there was a different kind of light in his eyes that she fell in love with and it’s different now, he’s different now — they’re both different now — but that’s still the same boy who held out his hand to her. That is the same boy who took the first step both of them are too scared to take, and crossed the gap between them.

From that moment he was _her_ brother and one of _her_ people.

And they _hurt him_. They almost killed him.

These — these people who don’t deserve to be people.

Bruce’s voice in her head sighs, disappointed. It isn’t about deserving, he’s told her before. They are. They are wrong and they are flawed, but they are still people. You shouldn’t sink to their level. You’re better.

But what if Cassandra doesn’t want to be better? What if she wants to get down to their level and show them how much better she is at it than they are?

Cassandra seethes quietly. She would seethe loudly but they are in a hospital and Tim is asleep. Unconscious. Might wake up soon? Not sure. She can seethe loudly somewhere else.

There are two natures in her. And they are fighting.

This is not new. They are always fighting. Bruce told her the key was compromise. She had to work out a solution that would take elements from both and put them together, a halfway between each. Neither one, nor the other. Balance.

Damian once said a compromise is a situation where no one walks away happy.

Cassandra thinks he’s right.

She isn’t going to compromise. Not over this. Not over her brother. Not over her family.

Bruce would be disappointed in her. In all of them, really. But Cassandra can’t find it in her to care right now. Maybe later. After. When the blood is spilled and can’t be put back. When her hands are bruised and her muscles are sore and her blood is hot with satisfaction. When she’s taken back every single hurt and repaid it three times over and more.

Maybe she’ll feel bad about it then.

But not right now. Right now everything in her screams. Everything in her howls and rages and snarls and hungers. Cassandra is every dark thing that she’s been told she can be better than and every single action that has been held back with a patient hand. Cassandra is every act of violence that can be imagined and then some contained into the body of a person. Cassandra is every single slight and every single broken bone and she is every single bitten cheek and comment swallowed.

Cassandra is a word beyond angry. She is a word beyond fed-up. Cassandra exists beyond words and — and all of this. Beyond guilt and regret and shame. Beyond conscience. Beyond compassion.

No more compromise.

Never again. No one else is going to get hurt on her watch.

No. More. Death.


	17. hunting season 10

Damian’s doesn't like Lonnie Machin. At best the man is a vigilante. At his worst he’s an idealist with an impossible dream that disregards the very basis of human nature. Damian does not have any fondness towards the man, but Drake holds him in high enough regards that they do business together often and Machin can occasionally be seen carrying out Drake’s business for him. Supposedly Machin and Father came to cross roads before, Machin getting in Father’s way many times and vice versa. Damian isn’t sure what Machin sees in Drake that he doesn’t see in Father because whatever grudges Machin has against the rest of the family he seems to have put aside to work with Drake.

Regardless of all of this context, Damian can respect a few things about the man. He has a goal and he’s actively working towards it and he has not yet strayed from the path he has designated as his own. That takes conviction, self-awareness, and a type of dogged endurance that Damian would be a fool not to recognize as anything short of herculean. Damian can respect that he managed to not get himself killed when throwing himself against every single crime organization in Gotham and possibly the rest of the state. Damian can also, reluctantly, admit that the man has a rather upstanding moral character.

But Damian doesn’t have to _like_ him.

At this very moment? Damian is pretty sure he _hates Lonnie Machin_.

In hindsight it should have been obvious something was wrong. But Damian was willing to dismiss it as Drake having the sort of day where his physical injuries were being unacceptable and intolerable in any way and as much as Damian enjoys annoying Drake, staying while Drake was unwell in such a manner would be type of aggravation Damian would want no part and parcel of. Damian saw Drake’s carefully tailored expression of neutrality and assumed _pain_. Because that’s what all of them assume — have assumed — since the incident. Drake is in chronic pain and some days are worse than others, just like how father’s back still sometimes acts up. It’s a fact of their lives.

Leave it to Drake to take advantage of that natural assumption and use it for his own purposes as a cover story.

Machin would never drive Damian anywhere except maybe off a dock with rocks tied to his ankles, but for Drake? For Drake, he would. Damian, again, had assumed that Machin was extracting himself from the situation. That Machin, also, did not want to be around Drake to exacerbate his already nebulous condition. Damian worried, then, because it had to be very bad if Drake didn’t want _anyone_ around. Damian had considered calling their sister, or Brown, to check in on him later.

Neither of the women have a particularly nurturing hand, but neither of them are people Drake can refuse. And it’s impossible to lie to Cassandra, at least, not for very long.

Machin, generally, does not lie. According to Machin it’s beneath him and unnecessary. He can achieve his goals in the open without lies, and there are other ways to get what he wants. But that doesn’t mean the man _doesn’t_ lie. And there’s more than _one_ type of lie that can exist.

Damian counts Machin not saying anything about his brother _driving headfirst into his own assassination attempt_ while Machin drives Damian in the _opposite direction of said assassination attempt_ to be a type of lie.

Even if the man did own up to it later.

It had taken Damian too long to realize something _was_ wrong. It had taken him precious time that could have been used trying to drag his brother out of this mess. He wasted even more time arguing with Machin trying to get _him_ to turn the damned car around.

It was Machin’s silence that did it. It’s like Machin wanted Damian to catch him out. Considering Machin and his general — everything Damian thinks that might have been the case. Because Machin’s credo doesn’t allow for him to see women and children hurt. But at the same time, walking away from a friend who is about to face certain death definitely hits something on that list.

(“He wants to keep you safe.” Machin’s voice was bitter, angry, resigned.

“I’m the son of the most powerful crime family in this hemisphere,” Damian snapped, “There is no such thing as safe. Either you turn this car around or I’m going to _jump_ out of this car and _run_. Which do you think is safer?”)

Damian got there in time to see the police and ambulance arrive — Damian got there in time to see people running into cars and driving off, tires squealing. Damian got there in time to see his brother slumped against the side of his car. Damian got there in time to run to his brother, pull him into the arms, smell the gasoline, and drag Drake out of the way right before the car _exploded_.

Damian got there in time to catch a glimpse of faces, looking smug and pleased and so completely unaware of what sort of hell they have unleashed upon themselves and the rest of their families. Damian got there in time to see them and mentally swear the wrath of a demon and all of the hells it controls upon their lives.

It doesn’t matter if he and Drake don’t get along. It doesn’t matter if they argue more than they do anything else. It doesn’t matter how often they disagree or how often they get in each other’s way.

At the end of the day, Drake is _family_ and that’s been drilled into Damian’s head daily for almost a decade now.

For this?

He will personally make sure Gotham runs red.

I am sorry, Father, Damian thinks, but I am what I am. And I am heir to two most ignoble houses, and I am all their wrath and their pride. I am, at my basest nature, a tyrant’s hunger.


	18. hunting season 11

Bruce is only visible in the room as a shadow to shadows, a dark outline that could be machines, furniture, or just a strange conglomeration of shadows cast by curtains or window blinds. If Dick were the kind of person to give over to vivid imagery and all of that literary talk like Damian and Jason are, he would say that Bruce looks like some grim specter of death or something like that. Dick can barely see him — he kind of looks like a smudge on the window, or a bit of glare.

But Dick knows he’s in there, just out of the reach of the lights from the hallway filtering in through Tim’s partially opened blinds.

Cass went to meet Jason about twenty minutes ago and Dick knows he should feel a guilty. At least a little guilty.

One, he almost beat a man to death with his bare hands — not quite.

Two, he gave that man to _Jason_ to handle.

Three, Jason then decided he wanted Cass in on the action. Not for any real purpose other than to make Fabricci’s life a living hell. Dick isn’t sure if Jason is going to kill Fabricci or not. He could be useful alive as turn-coat, or some kind of witness. And Bruce has always taught them to use killing as a last resort, because killing no matter what is wrong and it isn’t something that should ever be on their hands. Killing someone doesn’t accomplish anything at all. It sounds like an outrageous credo to hold to as a crime family, but they’ve mostly stuck to it. Mostly. And Dick should press for that. This man is a little fish and he isn’t worth it.

But at the same time —

He put a bullet (several, but it’s not like they can trace each bullet to each gun, at least not yet anyway) in their little brother. Would’ve put a bullet in _two_ of their brothers if Tim hadn’t been so recklessly selfless. As if there was any other brand of selfless known to anyone in this family. As if any of them knew how to be anything _other_ than reckless.

Tim’s voice chides Dick in his head, I told you I wasn’t the cautious one. I don’t know why any of you keep thinking that of me.

Yeah, Dick agrees quietly, I know, but it was a sliding scale Timbo. A sliding scale that you almost slid right off of.

Dick told Bruce to leave, and he really should try and _make_ Bruce go home and — not look like a shadow of death sitting next to his half-dead brother. But Dick can’t find it in himself to actually do that.

It’s too similar.

Half of Dick’s mind is in a different hospital, almost ten years ago. And it’s Jason’s body covered in burns and bandages, hooked up to every sort of machine, lying prone. It’s _Jason_ and Bruce is sitting there next to Jay like he is right now, looking like the damn reaper.

The worst part is that they both did it for love. Jason did it for his — for his _mother_. Tim did it for Damian. Acts of reckless self-disregard for the sake of love and loyalty. It’s so hard to argue against that without sounding like a complete douche. Dick knows. He’s tried. It’s a situation where no one comes out lookin good.

Dick runs a thumb over his knuckles, feeling the tender skin that’s going to be bruised by the end of the night. Night which has only just begun to fall. Night, which isn’t quite here yet because the sun is still quietly sinking below the horizon. Night, which promises it will be long and broken and cacophonous.

He should make sure to have a call put in to the police to let them know to expect — to expect certain noise.

But seriously — _Christ —_

A car chase and a shoot out in the middle of the damn afternoon. Of all the —

They didn’t even have the class, the propriety, the _decency _to wait until nightfall. This is _Gotham_. Everyone knows that this kind of business happens after dark. It’s like these people haven’t ever seen a movie or something. It should be common knowledge by now. It’s a rule that’s unspoken in Gotham because everyone should know it. It’s like saying fire is hot, it’s _redundant_.

Everyone else can do what they want during the day — rob a bank, hold up a department store, jack a car. _Whatever the fuck they want_. During the day? Go _wild_. It’s anyone’s game. You don’t have to belong to a family or a group to do whatever. Go about your business. Do what you have to do. If you step on any toes you’ll know. _Petty things_ go on during the day. Little things. Regular people things.

But _this_? This kind of move? It waits for the night. It’s _supposed_ to wait for the night. When most everyone else is out of the way and only the people who know what they’re doing are around. Dick seethes at the thought of all the bystanders, all the people who weren’t involved in this. He rankles at the thought that his brother’s almost-death was put on display for _all of Gotham to see_. He prickles at the thought that _people must have known_.

There would have been other groups who knew about this and they permitted it. They didn’t step in to say — _wait, think this through_. Or to advise that the timeline be reconsidered.

There were those who turned a blind eye. They _wanted_ to see what would happen. They wanted to gawk and gape and watch the show unfold before their eyes.

Dick’s stomach burns, acid and outrage. Dick’s entire body seethes in luminous drive.

Well. Dick doesn’t know any family with more natural in-born talent for showmanship and theatricality than his.

It would have been nice if they could’ve kept Gotham incident free for another few months. Then the would’ve hit a full year marking the last time they tore Gotham apart.


	19. hunting season 12

Tim wakes up and there's a measure of surprise here.

On one hand, he’s astounded he woke up. Unless this is hell or some other version of the afterlife in which one just wakes up in pain, groggy, and in a less than comforting atmosphere of an incredibly overworked hospital. Odds were trending heavily towards him _not_ waking up and honestly Tim can’t even bring himself to feel vindicated in the fact that he _did_ survive the latest in a long series of bad, terrible, incredibly stupid decisions. If Tim’s life were a movie and people were taking bets while watching it, Tim would have bet heavy on _not_ surviving. In fact, Tim would’ve bet on not surviving the _first_ time he got a major injury. And every single time after that. The surprise at _waking up again_ has just never faded after that first time. Odd, considering you should, in theory, get some kind of — immunity? Tolerance?

Are major injuries and near-death experiences anything like the flu? Chicken pox? Measles?

Or is he just the weird one who’s always surprised?

And on the other hand — every single blood cell in Tim’s body burns with a savage glee. If he’s alive that means he made it through. And since his brain is providing him with a helpful highlight reel of the details he made sure to do his damned best to keep ingrained into his skull, it looks like he hasn’t suffered any brain damage. Hopefully. But Tim’s alive. And he can remember the face and name and license plate of every single person present at his botched execution.

Tim’s brain lurches forward, driving itself in a hundred directions towards a thousand different branching paths and plans, seeking out the ones that will end in the most brutally and viscerally satisfying ways.

And then Tim’s eyes connect to his brain and shout, _oh shit._

Lonnie Machin stands at the other end of the room, arms crossed, radiating hostile energy. Tim isn’t sure what he was expecting aside from expecting to not wake up, but Lonnie isn’t it. In a weird way he’s relieved it isn’t someone in his family, who would, no doubt, chew him up and spit him out, before turning into mother hen mode so fast you’d think they were the ones with the possible head injury. Lonnie isn’t the type to coddle.

“The only reason I haven’t killed you myself is because of principle,” Lonnie says flatly.

Tim wants to point out that isn’t how the saying goes. It’s the other way around. But Tim’s mouth, unfortunately, hasn’t caught up to his brain, so he can only make a weird garbled grumble. His mouth is dry and his lips feel tacky.

Lonnie turns sharply on his heel, wrenches the door open, “He’s awake. I’m leaving. These good doctors worked so very hard to make sure he stays alive, I feel like it would be a disservice to them to undo their work before he’s even left the building.”

Lonnie walks out of Tim’s hospital room and in walks Jason.

Tim’s fairly certain his stomach figures out a way to drop through his spine, through the bed, past the floor, and proceed to shoot its way down to the center of the earth out of dread.

It’s not like he wouldn’t feel terrible if it was anyone else. Tim’s entirely certain that no matter who came in after Lonnie Tim would feel like garbage. There isn’t one who’s worse to encounter than the other. Personally, as someone who’s also been on the other end of this — but rarely, very, very rarely — there definitely is a kind of bitter joy in being the first one in to let loose the first verbal shot.

And Jason is so very, very good at that.

“Like Machin said,” Jason says, standing at the foot of Tim’s bed, arms crossed. He doesn’t look like he’s slept much, and his hair is a complete mess. “If this weren’t a fucking hospital, you’d be a dead man. Honestly? If they’d discharged you and took you back to the Manor and _then_ you woke up? I’m pretty sure that Damian and I would be fighting on who gets to put the pillow over your face to smother you for good.”

Tim doesn’t say anything and, again, it’s less out of conscious will more because his mouth hasn’t figured out how it works yet. It’s a work in progress that’s not helped at all by the panic. He wonders if he can go back to sleep.

“Don’t you even think about it,” Jason snaps. “You’ve been in and out of it for the past three days and I want to make sure that it _sticks_ when I rip you to shreds, Replacement. The others wasted their shot thinking you were lucid the last few times. I’m not.”

Tim wants to ask how Jason knows Tim’s lucid _this_ time because Tim’s still trying to figure out how _verbal communication _works.

“I know you’re lucid because you only make that face when you’re thinking about ten or more things per second,” Jason says, picking up the clip board hanging at the end of Tim’s bed. “You had three gunshot wounds. Do you remember that part? Also your car fucking exploded, so way to go there. Talking shit at me for breaking things, you went and got your car riddled with so many bullets it _exploded_. That hasn’t happened to _me_ before. Let’s see. What else. They had to stick a tube down your throat while you were in surgery. And then they had to hook you up to a ventilator. Right, they were also seriously concerned about a lung infection. You broke some ribs on a bullet.”

“You’re putting the blame on me and not the bullet?” Tim manages to say after a few false starts. Jason waits for him to get the words out, because if there’s anything Jason enjoys more than giving a good monologue, it’s getting into a _debate_. “Victim blaming.”

“Not if the so called victim hurls themselves onto the bullet,” Jason replies. “Shut up, I’m on a roll here.”

“You shut up, I’m on a hospital bed. You can lecture me after I’m disconnected from all of this.”

“And risk you bouncing never to be found again? Forget it. You’re a captive audience.”


End file.
